


It's Not the Fall That Kills You

by EmpireX



Category: Red Eye (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-10-29
Updated: 2009-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpireX/pseuds/EmpireX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson escapes from federal custody. Lisa goes on the run. A game of chase begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Red Eye came out of nowhere and sunk it's claws into me rather recently. I have no idea why. No, that's not true. Blame it on that blazin' chemistry between Mr. Murphy and Ms. McAdams. All that delicious subtext. Mmmm... subtext... And Wes' insightful DVD commentary. I apologize in advance if updates are slow in coming. Not sure where this is going to end up. I can promise, however, angst and smuttiness.

I am the tiger.

I lie in wait for you among leaves

broad as ingots

of wet mineral.

The white river grows

beneath the fog. You come.

Naked you submerge.

I wait.

Then in a leap

of fire, blood, teeth,

with a claw slash I tear away

your bosom, your hips.

I drink your blood, I break 

your limbs one by one.

And I remain watching

for years in the forest

over your bones, your ashes,

motionless, far

from hatred and anger, 

disarmed in your death,

crossed by lianas,

motionless in the rain,

relentless sentinel

of my murderous love.

The Tiger - Pablo Neruda

*****

He caught up with her the first time at a podunk service station in Ochopee, Florida.

Jackson knew she would run as soon as she heard he'd escaped from Miami Federal Corrections' minimum security prison. He imagined Special Agent Reynolds of the FBI had called to deliver the bad news, or maybe Charles Keefe himself. Either way, two hours after his employer facilitated what could only be described as a rather discrete escape from federal custody, Jackson Rippner was watching Lisa Reisert throw a duffle bag in her Toyota Camry and tear out of her apartment complex's parking lot.

"Lisalisalisa," he chanted, "where are you going?" He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his charcoal 2005 Audi A8 – just out of storage – and smiled. He had to duck down in the seat as she flew past him. It wouldn't do to be seen quite so early in the game. After a moment, he pulled out and followed her, careful to keep multiple car lengths between them.

She headed west, taking a right on 8th Street and merging onto US-41. At first Jackson though she was running to daddy's house, but she soon passed the exit for Joe's and continued on, heading out of the city proper. They passed Westchester. Fountainbleu. Tamiami. Twenty minutes out of Tamiami, still heading west on US-41, Jackson realized that this very well might not be a little jaunt.

A standard brown park sign announced they were heading into Big Cypress National Preserve, an isolated stretch of road through the Everglades. Jackson huffed and squinted suspiciously at the sign.

"What are you up to, Leese?" he muttered, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. If this was her idea of self-preservation, then she was an idiot. Jackson had never driven this particular highway, but as he looked out at the passing marshes, he couldn't help but smirk. He couldn't have picked a more perfect environment for a dump site. Between alligators, insects, and other scavengers, a body was not likely to ever be found. Christ, was she trying to make it easy for him?

An hour later, it was dusk and the sun was nothing more than an orange on blue smear out his window. The dial on the gas meter had dipped dangerously low, making him anxious. There was nothing out here. Not a damn thing except an occasional car or shanty house off the main road. If he ran out of gas out here, he would be well and truly screwed. She'd be long gone by the time he'd be able to get back on the road again. He'd lose her. The thought made his throat tighten unpleasantly and his heart rate increase.

Jackson rolled his windows down, allowing a slight breeze coming in off the ocean. As it passed over the swamps, it brought with it the raw, earthy scent of decaying plant material. He took a deep breath; inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. It was too early for mosquitoes, so Jackson was thankful for that. Florida could be a downright miserable state to visit, but this time of year - early spring - it was bearable. The chatter of locusts was overwhelming loud, but he found that he liked it; he'd turned off the radio when the reception on all the stations started getting sketchy. Music was a distraction, anyway. This wasn't some Sunday drive, this was a job. This was The Hunt.

Up ahead, scattered lights were coming up over the horizon. He really hoped there was a service station. Soon enough, a small sign declared they were entering Ochopee, population 128.

"Christ," he muttered. Where the hell was she leading him?

Lisa must have been running low on gas, too. He recognized her white Camry as she signaled, her taillights lighting up when she braked and turned left. As Jackson approached the station, he flipped off his headlights and pulled over onto the shoulder. The gas station was positively ancient, probably built before paved roads came to the area. It looked like something out of a horror movie; run down, some of its windows boarded up. He reasoned it must have been hit hard by one of the frequent tropical storms the area was vulnerable to; that, or nobody cared enough to keep up with repairs.

He sat there, engine idling. He'd have to wait for her to leave before he took his turn at the pump. He leaned over to the glove box and flipped it open. Groping past the SIG Sauer P229R concealed there, Jackson pulled out a pair of binoculars. How familiar this all was, slipping into the role of Watcher. Like slipping into a warm bath, into a pair of comfortable, old shoes. It had been so easy, those eight weeks, watching her putter around the house in her fuzzy slippers, first with binoculars, then after he figured out her schedule, slipping into her modest bungalow with his tech guy, Marshall, and installing the more high-tech surveillance equipment: a tiny camera hidden between two books in her living room, another in her kitchen, the classic bug-in-the-table-lamp... Marshall was a genius at hiding those things. He'd even offered to put a camera in Lisa's shower. "For entertainment, man. Might as well have something nice to look at while you're playing stakeout. This Reisert chick looks like she's got a great rack."

No argument there, but Jesus, he did have some scruples. "Well, that's thoughtful of you, Marsh, but I hope I'll never have to stoop to spying on girls in the shower to get my sexual kicks."

Marshall had sniffed, offended. "Hey, we're not all as pretty as you, Jackie-boy."

He watched her pump her gas. Lisa seemed alert, wary; almost like a deer sensing a predator. Instead of watching the meter, she watched the road, taking a good hard look at each approaching car and it's driver. He grinned when a sudden gust of wind whipped her hair across her face and her skirt up around her thighs.

Lisa. Do you feel me? Do you feel how close I am?

Jackson licked his lips and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

She drives straight through the night - ten and a half hours - and ends up in Destin, Florida. It's a small resort town - white sand beaches and clear aqua-blue water - but this time of year, it's dead. The ocean is too cold to swim in, so most of the tourists stay away. He watches her check into the Sea Oats Motel, a well-maintained, but inexpensive place set right on the beach. It's a long, rectangular building painted a pale, pinky-peach. It reminds him of the inside of a seashell.

There's only two floors, parking lot in the front with the main office, and external staircases lead up the second floor. At the back of the building, which faces the beach, the first floor rooms open onto private patios, second floor rooms have one long balcony that runs the length of the building. There's partitions for privacy, but security was obviously not the architect's first concern. The balcony and patio doors are simple sliding glass doors to which Jackson knows he could easily gain access. If he has to go in, he'll go in that way.

Ten minutes later Lisa exits the main office, key in hand, followed by a skinny teenage boy who drags her suitcase behind him. He leads her up the stairs to the second floor – the last room on the end. They go inside and the kid comes back out a couple minutes later, heads back to the office.

Jackson waits a few minutes before getting out of the car. He slips on a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators to hide his eyes. It doesn't do to be remembered in his line of work. His face is both a blessing and a curse: good-looking to the point of being "pretty", startlingly blue eyes, and boyish features allow him to gain people's trust rather easily - especially women. But by the same token, he's hard to forget. So he's perfected the art of nonchalance, his ability to blend in, to look like he belongs wherever he is. He keeps his head down and moves quickly over to the staircase. He jogs up the stairs and checks the closest room numbers: twenty-four and further down, in the direction of Lisa's room, twenty-five. So that makes Lisa's room at the end… lucky number thirty-six.

Pleased with himself, he trots down the stairs and grabs his overnight bag from the backseat. He walks into the office and drops his bag on the floor next to the front desk. The kid who assisted Lisa is hunched over a textbook, gnawing on a No. 2 pencil. He barely acknowledges Jackson until he speaks.

"I'd like a room, please."

"How many?" the kid asks, never glancing up. Perfect, Jackson thinks, a completely oblivious teenager. Just my luck.

"A room. Just the one."

"No, how many are checking in?" the kid huffs, like Jackson should naturally comprehend his monosyllabic questions.

Jackson narrows his eyes, but a pleasant smile hides his irritation. "It's just me."

"How long?'

"Umm… I'm not sure. I'm here on business so we'll have to play it by ear."

The kid couldn't care less. "Right." He turns to the board of dangling room keys and plucks one from the mess. "I've got a single available on the first floor – room twelve." He starts to slide the key across the counter to Jackson.

"Actually, a balcony view might be nice…"

"Oookay," the kid rolls his eyes and takes back the key. "There's a great view from room eighteen…"

"How about room thirty-five?"

The kid frowns. "That's a double."

"I don't mind paying extra."

"The air's out in that one."

"It's practically winter."

"The heat's out in it, too."

"I'm pretty warm-blooded."

"Maintenance hasn't had the chance to go in there and…"

Jackson reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. The kid watches him thumb through bills of various denominations, settling on a fifty. He stuffs it in the kid's front pocket with a polite smile.

"I don't mind," he replies, trying not to clench his teeth.

The kid shrugs, turns and takes the room key down. He plunks the key down on the counter. "We only take credit cards."

"That's fine." He plucks a platinum Visa from his wallet and hands it over to the kid. Jackson signs the receipt with his meticulous scrawl.

"Enjoy your stay at the Sea Oats Motel, Mister…" he glances down at the receipt. "…Ryan." The kid doesn't even make an attempt to sound genuine in his sentiments.

"Need help with your…" he gestures to Jackson's duffle bag.

"No, I can handle it, thanks."

The kid slouches back down on his stool and resumes his studying.

Jackson decides to wait to go up to his room. Lisa could open her door at any moment and then… well, it would be awkward to say the least. Better to wait until it's dark. The sun should be gone in the next hour or so. He'll be patient. He'll listen to some Beethoven, Dvořák, maybe some Sibelius. But first…

He strolls over to Lisa's car. He doesn't pick the lock. It's not that he doesn't know how, he just doesn't need to. He made himself a spare key during the eight weeks that he was her shadow. Made one for her house, too. He reaches down underneath the steering wheel and pops the hood of her car. He loosens the spark plugs just enough that, should she try to drive off while he's sleeping, she won't be able to start her car. He'll get up early – he knows she naturally rises at 6:30 a.m. – and fix them. Or maybe he won't. For the first time in his life, he's not sure what his plans are – for her or himself. Maybe he'll kill her and skip the country. There's no shortage of work in Europe – specifically in the east. The former Soviet bloc appears to be slipping back towards authoritarianism and that means a situation ripe for opportunities: political and more importantly, economic. Maybe he'll brush up on his Russian.

On the other hand, it's been a while since he took a vacation. Majorca, maybe. Or Ibiza. He wonders what Lisa would look like in a teeny bikini, laid out in the sand, skin glistening with oil. But, no. She's not a girl who tans. She's so fair skinned, she'd burn to a crisp under the Mediterranean sun. No, she'd be hiding out under one of those enormous beach umbrellas, shades firmly fixed over her eyes, Oprah's latest book club selection in hand…

He lets the hood of the Camry drop as quietly as he can. He has to push on it with both hands to make sure it latches, all the while eyeing Lisa's door. There's no movement and the drapes are still pulled shut.

Jackson returns to his car and thumbs through his CD collection. In the end he settles on Schubert's Death and the Maiden, but about five minutes into the piece, he's jolted forward in his seat when the door to Lisa's room opens. He watches her pad down the stairs in bare feet, and disappear around the corner of the building.

Jackson's torn. He wants to follow her, but he's concerned with being seen. Hell with it, he thinks. He jumps out of the car and jogs across the parking lot and around the side of the motel. He peeks around the corner of the building first to make sure the coast is clear. There's not another living soul on the beach besides her. It's problematic. There's no hope of blending in. But he's wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt and it's dark enough now that if he keeps his distance, she may not notice him at all. He pulls the brim of his baseball cap down closer to his face and waits.

He wonders why his heart is beating so fast, why his palms are clammy. He could easily be mistaken for a novice. He realizes then, with a snorting laugh, that he's left his gun and knife in the car. He's completely unarmed.

This is reconnaissance, anyway, he tells himself. He won't make his move yet. He just wants to watch her. The fact that he's drawing this out should concern him, but it doesn't.

Lisa stands on the beach, a small black-labeled bottle in her hand. Perhaps a mini-bottle of Jack Daniels from the mini-bar? She lifts it to her mouth and takes a sip every so often. She's just watching the waves, letting the water rush in to lap at her feet and then rush out. When she moves on down the beach, he decides she's a safe distance away and starts to follow.

He watches her wandering form, her skirt whipping around her legs like a white flag. She stops occasionally to pick up a piece of driftwood and throw it back into the water or pick up a shell and slip it into the pocket of her hoodie. She stumbles a little over a patch of sand, but rights herself. He wonders how many of those mini-bottles she's already had.

She's moving towards an undeveloped stretch of beach. The closest hotel or house is a good hundred, hundred fifty yards away. She's so vulnerable out here, a lone woman on a (nearly) deserted beach. Anything could happen to her. And if Jackson had a weapon on him, maybe something would. If he was waiting for an opportunity to take her out, this would have been the optimal environment: remote location, the cover of darkness. He could bury her body in the sand and be out of the state before they'd find her.

Lisa halts suddenly. She looks to the right, further down the coastline, and then her head turns to the left, in his direction. Jackson stops dead. Has she seen him? She stares off in his direction. He's frozen, can't move, cover blown. His heart is in his throat. Does she know it's him? If she runs, will he chase her? She's pretty fast, and she's got a good head start. He doesn't think he'll be able to catch her…

She looks back at the distant beach houses and hotels and then turns back toward the sea. It's all for nothing. A moment later she relaxes and his thudding heart does too, easing back down to its proper place in his chest. He's too far away, his clothes too dark. He blends into the night, half-hidden by the curve of a small sand dune. She does not see him.

Jackson watches her standing there in the sand. She lifts her hand, holding her hair back when a gust of wind whips it around her face. As she gazes out to sea, he's reminded of Waterhouse's painting: Miranda, The Tempest. She stands there, five minutes, ten. He's lost track of the time. She's like a flickering white flame in the dark, the moon reflecting on her. Without warning, she drops her hand from the tangled mess of her hair and unzips her hoodie. She looks around once again and he feels himself tensing, but no worries, she's completely oblivious to his presence. The white hooded garment slips off her shoulders and she lets it fall to the sand. Her hands begin to work on the drawstring waistband of her skirt. It slips down her legs with ease.

Lisa. What the hell are you doing?

She's down to her bra and panties.

Swimming? In this weather? This girl's a nutjob.

She reaches one arm behind her and unclasps her plain, white bra. Unconsciously, Jackson's body leans forward slightly in anticipation. She shrugs her shoulders and the scrap of material flutters to the ground. Jackson sucks in a breath and then stops breathing altogether when she bends at the waist and shimmies out of her panties. His mouth goes suddenly dry. When he swallows, it's ridiculously loud to his own ears.

Don't. Look. Don't you fucking look. You don't need this right now. Don't make things more complicated than they already are.

Too late. He can't help it. He is, after all, a man. And Lisa's got a great body: svelte, slightly athletic, perfect breasts - not too small, not too large - small waist, and a nice, round ass.

Lisa takes a step towards the water; another and then another, fearlessly wading in. The waves are practically non-existent and the clouds are few, so he can see her perfectly: smooth, white limbs disappearing under the royal blue surface of the water. First her knees, then her thighs, her waist, then her breasts. He wonders how it feels to her skin; deliciously cool or numbingly cold.

She dives under and swims out a few yards beneath the water, then surfaces. The moon, full as a bull, has risen up into the sky a little more, spreading a shining path on the water. Where her hand grazes it, silver sparks fly out. He wonders if she can feel the moonlight on her skin, if it feels different, effervescent on the skin of her back.

Jackson wishes he were closer, wants to see the expression on her face. He wants to know what's going on in that mad head of hers, why she, of all people, is skinny dipping in water that must be uncomfortably cold. He wants the see what her scar looks like in the moonlight. He licks his lips and thinks that if he were to run his tongue across it, he would taste the ocean on her skin.

On occasion, the sublimated attraction he feels for this girl rears its ugly head and strikes, a pang of lust reverberating throughout his body... and more than once, to parts further south. He looks down and feels a wave of disgust at the bulge in his jeans. "Fuck," he growls.

Jackson turns on his heel and heads back across the beach towards their motel, his gait not quite a jog, but quick, as if he's the one being hunted down.

*****

I am a Russian doll, 

Layers beneath the skin 

I have no interest to see 

how I keep all that stuff in, 

Cause now I've found you faithless 

same as me

It waits just like an animal, 

patient like an animal,

eyes in the trees

looking for me...

Wait and see

And all the times I did this same thing 

All the times I...

Karma, karma, karma... 

Then I had no reflection 

Now I live in a glass, 

along with all those sweet eyes 

I made so red in the past 

Now they're smiling 

while they're dragging me down

It leans on me 

til I can't breathe...

And all the times I did this same thing 

All the times I...

Karma, karma, karma...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Nicolina and Rose for their beta work. The "Death and the Maiden" reference is my own shout out to Gallivant and her (his? I tend to assume most fic-writers are women) Red Eye fic, "The Real Deal," one of the best fics I've EVER read. Read and review! Maybe some feedback will jump-start her muse and she'll finish it!
> 
> Regarding the lyrics I posted above, I can't recommend Caroline Lavelle enough as an artist. Awesome and haunting, her lyrics are poetry. And her cello playing is exquisite. She's not as new-agey as Enya, and she's more modern than Loreena McKennitt, but if you like them, you'd probably like her. Check her out on Amazon.


	3. Chapter 3

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.  
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.  
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day  
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,  
your hands the color of a savage harvest,  
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,  
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,  
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,  
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,  
hunting for you, for your hot heart,  
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Sonnet XI - Pablo Neruda

*****

When he returns to the beach, she's still there. He watches her swim for a while, a sleek dolphin slicing through the water, until she finally comes ashore, wringing the water from her hair. Dressing quickly, she forgoes her bra and panties, crumples them in her hand. When she's decent, he comes forward out of the shadows and greets her, knife in hand.

"Lisa," he nods politely, as if meeting an old acquaintance. She stops cold, her eyes widen in fear.

"Jack..."

"...son," he quickly finishes for her. "Jackson," he repeats, moving closer. "Say it right," he says, as if correcting a child.

"Jackson," she whispers.

"Yes."

"Please, don't do this..." she backs away, hands out, placating. It only infuriates him. He launches himself at her and she wheels away. But it's ungraceful, sloppy. She's half-drunk and barefoot. She makes it ten feet up the beach before he catches her by her hair and drags her down to the sand, face-first. She doesn't scream, doesn't cry for help. She rolls over onto her back, futilely bats his hands away. They struggle, he throws a leg over hers, trapping her legs between his own. He digs his knees into the sand to gain some sort of hold and with his left hand, pins her small wrists together above her head.

She's trembling underneath him, silent tears sliding out of the corner of her eyes, down her temples, and into her hair. 

"You're so pretty when you cry," he murmurs.

The blade in his hand is a small, elegant tool, and deadly sharp. One slice could sever an artery entirely. He'll be kind. Quick and painless. Why should she suffer? He runs the blade from the tip of her chin, down her throat, between the valley of her breasts, to her heart. Gently, like a caress. She closes her eyes and turns her face away.

"You have no idea how often I've thought about this." A sob escapes her. Her narrow shoulders are wracked with shudders. "Shhhh. It's all right. I'll be gentle," he whispers, like a lover. He plucks a sodden lock of hair plastered to her chest and brushes it behind her shoulder. He wants a perfect canvas.

"I'm really going to enjoy this."

His movements are quick and efficient: a lightning-fast movement of his wrist plunges the knife into her heart. She gasps, her eyes snap open, surprised. Another thrust and her mouth opens wide on a silent scream. Her eyes roll back in her head. But instead of a blood-curdling shriek, she utters a breathy moan and rolls her hips underneath him.

Jackson frowns. He withdraws the blade, expecting a few seconds before the arterial blood starts to flow and the dark substance wells up from her wounds to saturate her shirt, but there is nothing. He waits. She lies still, blinking up at him, docile as a lamb. Something's wrong. It's taking too long. With one swift slice, he rends her pale blue tank in two, and brushes the fabric aside, exposing the delicate bones of her clavicle, her sternum, breasts tipped with the palest pink he's ever seen - pink like the inside of a shell - and perfect.

The wounds he inflicted are not there.

Strange. He tries again, sliding the knife into her heart. The blade goes in smoothly - it's like butter - but she does not bleed. Instead, she gasps and arches her back.

"Don't stop," she pleads. He pulls out the knife again, slowly, and she moans, her gaze fixed on his. He tentatively runs a finger over the the place where the blade penetrated. It's perfect. Unblemished.

"The fuck...?" he mutters and falls back on his ass in the sand. It's like he's just witnessed the turning of the water into wine. Or more like the resurrection.

Their struggle has caused her skirt to ride up on her thighs and without his weight anchoring them, her legs fall open.

"Jackson..." she whimpers and writhes as though in pain. She licks her lips and drags her teeth over her lower lip. Her hands now free, she skims one over her breast and the other slides down to pull the hem of her skirt up higher.

Jackson is highly uncomfortable in situations he does not comprehend and this one is upsetting, to say the least. Normally, this would make him angry, but at the moment, he's completely baffled. And more than a little afraid.

He looks around in the sand for his knife. It's nowhere to be found. It's like it never was. He clambers to his knees and cautiously kneels over her.

She places an icy hand on his cheek. "Can't kill what's already dead," she explains softly. "I can't feel anything. Nothing. I feel nothing." She begins to cry, her hands fluttering at her sides like twin doves. "Please, can't you? Make me feel something..."

Her hands fly up to catch his, placing one on her breast and the other on her inner thigh in invitation. Her skin is petal-soft. He's never held an infant, but he thinks this is what everyone is going on about when they say "baby-soft." He hesitates, but the thin cotton of her skirt falls back easily when he pushes it up, up, over the tops of her thighs, over her neatly-trimmed thatch of pubic hair, over her flat tummy. Her legs open wider to him, wantonly. He's assaulted by a deep pull low in his belly that's echoed beneath in the surge of her hips against his.

He doesn't need any more encouragement. He sits up and whips his t-shirt off, unbuckles his belt. The metallic rasp of his zipper sounds obscenely loud, but it spurs Lisa to whimper again.

"Hurry," she pleads.

In one swift motion, he shoves his jeans and boxers down around his knees, too keyed up to bother taking them all the way off. He falls upon her like a wave and she laces her fingers through his hair. His heart is pounding like mad, he's sure she can feel it against her breasts.

"Yes," she says, her breasts rising and falling with her light, panting breaths. "Yes," to a question he hasn't asked. She wraps her legs around his waist. Christ, her limbs are so cold. I'll warm her... He takes himself in hand and plunges in to the hilt.

But inside, oh inside... Inside her body she's all lush, humid heat; a snug, sweet place he'd like to stay forever. Lisa moans in relief, her breath caressing his ear. Her body relaxes as though someone just gave her a dose of morphine. She's all stillness and compliance, looking up at him with her large, grave eyes. Then her hips undulate, producing a low groan from him, and he remembers he must move. He pulls out and slides home again, a strong, sure stroke. She sighs in ecstasy, her head falls back in the sand, baring her delicate throat to him. He palms her breast, weighing the tender flesh in his hand, teasing one pink nipple into a stiff peak. He bows his back and takes it in his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with more demand.

His tongue presses the bud of her nipple to the roof of his mouth and he sucks hard. Her back arches, bringing her closer to him, even as the walls of her sex ripple around him. God, he wants to devour her whole, alive. Take her into himself, so he'll never be without. He gives her other neglected breast the same attention. Lisa whimpers, "Oh, Jackson," and he grabs her behind her right knee and draws it up higher on his side, opening her up, allowing him to go deeper, so deep he might split her in two. Or shatter himself against her, like a ship on the rocks.

Sweat trickles down his temple, his back, his stomach, as he pounds towards release. Her chilled skin sticks to his, sticky and thick like honey, and warm...

He glances down at where he's sliding in and out of her body and finds that, indeed, he's coated with a sticky substance, thick, but dark. He doesn't know where the thought comes from, but suddenly he realizes that it's true that red looks black in the moonlight. Jackson sits up in a hurry, pulling out of her body. The substance is smeared all over his stomach, his cock. It coats her belly as well, and between her thighs.

His nose is suddenly assaulted by the heavy, metallic scent of blood. He gasps in revulsion and looks back up at her. Surely she noticed. Why didn't she cry out? But then he sees Lisa can't cry out because Lisa's dead, her eyes staring into nothingness, unseeing, pupils fixed on a point in the sky. 

He's killed her, extinguished the light in her eyes. And he's been fucking a dead woman all along.

There's a terrible crushing weight on his chest. He wants to scream, he needs to scream. Fucking idiot! Stupid! Stupid, to destroy what you've desired the most, the voice in his head accuses. Rage and grief have taken over, mingling with bitter disappointment. He opens his mouth and waits for the howling to start, but it's lodged in his chest, deep down, and it won't come out for anything.

She'll never know… and you'll never have her, Jack. She's gotten away… Permanently. Gone, baby, gone...

Jackson bolts upright in bed, chest heaving as he gasps for air. He blinks, tries to calm himself while his eyes adjust to the darkness. There's a tightness in his rib cage, like his lungs have been denied oxygen for too long and his head is buzzing, temples throbbing in time to his racing pulse. He wipes sweat from his upper lip and shivers.

Jackson doesn't dream. Or at least he never remembers them. He can't remember the last time he had a nightmare like this, one that hurtles you into a state of consciousness, right into the middle of a panic attack. Not since he was a kid.

As he tries to get his bearings, he realizes he's freezing. The sheets are soaked with perspiration and twisted around his waist. There's a terrible ache in his groin that's not going away, either. Jackson untangles himself from the sheets and sits up on the side of the bed. The clock on the bed-side table notes the hour as 4:04 a.m. He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the stubble rasp against his palms. He feels raw all over, throat parched. He gets to his feet and ambles into the bathroom, unwraps one of the complimentary plastic cups and fills it with water from the tap. He downs it in one long gulp and goes back for another. His throat feels somewhat better now. He licks his lips and blinks at himself in the mirror, wonders who that pale, trembling, wide-eyed haunt is.

What are you doing?

He strips off his boxers and gets into the shower. The cold water blasts him back into his right mind, washes away the sweat and takes care of any lingering arousal in his groin. He shuts off the water, towels off, wrapping the stiff terrycloth around his waist. He doesn't bother to shave. Jackson riffles through his duffle bag and pulls out one of his pre-paid cell phones - a must in his line of work. It's completely untraceable.

He dials the number from memory and the person on the other end picks up, just like he knew he would. Marshall's a bit of a night owl. His slightly nasal, highly caffeinated voice answers.

"Speak."

"It's me. Turn off the recorder."

"Jackson? Man, where are you?" Lovely. The guy already sounds surly.

"Turn off the recorder."

"It's off."

"I'm serious, Marshall. Turn the fucking thing off," Jackson growls. He's not in the mood to deal with Marshall's paranoia.

There's a soft click on the other end.

"It's off, already! Where the hell are you, man? Greer was banging on my door last night wondering if I'd heard from you. He said you were supposed to be at some air field at 5:15 yesterday. You gotta let the Boss Man know when there's a change in plans or he gets nervous, sends his dogs out sniffing. And where do they end up? Here. Knockin' down my door, and totally harshing my mellow. I was on Legendary level of Halo 2. Legendary, man, when they busted in here."

Greer. Just great. Of all the enforcers the company has on its payroll, they had to send Alan Greer (or The Knuckle-Dragging Ape, as Jackson often refers to him) to haul his ass in.

"Right. Well, sorry they 'harshed your mellow' on my account. I know how seriously you take your hash and Halo breaks."

"Your apology smacks of sarcasm, sir, and it is not appreciated."

Jackson rolls his eyes. Marshall is somewhat high strung and over-dramatic. His voice, perverse sense of humor, and debatable paranoia regarding the U.S. government can be somewhat grating. Jackson wouldn't be surprised if he caught him wearing a tin foil hat one of these days. If it weren't for the guy's amazing abilities to obtain whatever Jackson needs on short notice, he'd never willfully work with the guy. But one must make allowances for genius.

"Anyway," Marshall continues, "Herr Direktor wants a word. He wanted you out of the country asap and now it seems that Reisert chick's missing. He wants to know if you had anything to do with that."

Fuck. He didn't expect that quite so soon. "Is she on the news?"

"No, but Daddy Joe reported her missing. You're not on the news, either, by the way. You can thank Senator Howard for that. I wonder how much a Senator costs these days... Don't know how long he'll be able to cover for us though, with Miami Federal's warden rarin' to get you back. Must be terribly embarrassing, a terrorist disappearing..."

"Alleged terrorist," Jackson corrects.

"Oh, excuse me, alleged terrorist escaping from one of our nation's fine penal institutions. Someone's gonna lose their head over that."

"I was never charged..."

"That's right!" Marshall exclaims. "'Cuz they can't formally charge you until they know who you really are. And you're a ghost, man. And why are you a ghost?"

Jackson sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off an oncoming migraine. "Are you going to make me say it?"

At the other end he hears Marshall sniff in an expectant manner.

Jackson sighs again. "You, Marshall. You're the reason. You and your prodigious hacking talent."

"That's right, my mad ninja cyber-skillz erased you. So? Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Snatch the Reisert chick? Is the 'Ripper' tying up loose ends?"

"Don't fucking call me that."

"'It's cool with them if you are, you just need to check in with the 'rents. None of this AWOL shit, ya know? Greer's got a first class ticket to Moscow with your name on it."

"Lisa Reisert left home of her own volition. I had nothing to do with it."

"Yeah, but you're not one to just forgive and forget, Jackie-boy. It's a shame, though. That is one sweet piece of tail that I wouldn't mind..."

"Jesus Christ, do you ever shut the fuck up?" Jackson snaps.

"Well, aren't we a touchy mother-fucker? I'm sorry, did I insult your girlfriend? Listen, I'm just looking out for you, man. Let me give you some advice. Forget about the Reisert chick. Get your ass back to the loving embrace of the company and then get the hell out of Dodge."

"Thanks for the concern, Marshall, but I need some time. I need you to stall for me. And I need some surveillance equipment. Do you have any contacts in Florida? Specifically in the Destin area?"

"It's like talking to a wall," Marshall mutters to himself. "Hold on. Let me check."

Jackson can hear the muted sound of a keyboard clacking away.

"Oookay. We've got a guy in Pensacola. That's about an hour away..."

"Anyone not affiliated with the company?"

"I know a guy in Bay Saint Louis, but that's even further. What direction are you traveling?"

"I have no idea."

Marshall snorts. "That's a brilliant plan you've got there," he says snarkily. "I know people in Montgomery, Jackson, Baton Rouge... Take your pick."

The guy in Pensacola – he could make it there in forty minutes if he speeds, but why risk it? There's no way to be sure that Lisa won't be up and gone before he gets back. Plus, he doesn't want his employers to know his business. There's really no good option.

"I'm going to email you a list of items and I'll call you when I get to wherever I'm going. Have your friends in the area ready to go when I call you. They'll have to come to me, day or night. I can't risk losing the target."

"These guys aren't going to be happy to get yanked out of bed at 3 in the morning…"

"Just inform them a nice little bonus in the amount of two grand will be wired to their account upon delivery. You can set that up, can't you?"

Marshall sighs in resignation. "Sure thing. The account in the Caymans?"

"No, Credit Dauphine in Zurich."

"I'll have it ready to go."

Jackson nods. "Good man. I appreciate this. And Marshall?"

"Yeah?"

"If you breathe a word of this to Greer, I'll kick your ass."

"Asshole!" Marshall hisses as he hangs up.

Jackson chuckles and disconnects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block, argh! Took forever to get this one out, but here it is. Not sure about ending it right there, but I figured this chapter was long enough to go to print. I may do some editing to this chapter in the future if readers find it confusing. Thanks to CamiliaAnn for the beta!
> 
> Also, points to folks who can pick out the nods to Alias and The X-Files!


	4. Chapter 4

He never dreams. But tonight he dreamed of his mother.

He sits at the edge of her bed. At seven years old, he is small for his age, feet dangling nowhere near the floor. This is his last good memory of her, watching her brush her long, straight hair – as dark as his, but with more red – and apply her lipstick carefully.

Jackson enjoys watching her. He's hypnotized by the ritual, her familiar movements, as she traces the makeup brush over the bridge of her nose, the apples of her cheeks, her chin. It's like she's painting a picture, but with far more grace and fluidity than his small fingers can manage at this age. She's in her own world as she dabs some more concealer over the greenish-yellow bruise that mottles her left cheek and eye-socket. Even with bruises, his mother is still the prettiest lady he ever saw.

She finally notices him, her arctic eyes meeting his in the mirror. Her eyes are like water, like sky. Like forget-me-nots.

"Hello, my love," she says softly. She smiles, but it's slow to come. She is sad today.

Jackson smiles back because he knows it makes her less-sad.

"Now, my little man," she begins, and sets her lipstick down carefully on the vanity. "What did you learn in school today?"

Nothing he didn't already know, but he doesn't tell her this. She already pushed him up a grade and now he's the youngest and smallest one in his class. Jackson doesn't think the third-graders would like him any better than the second-graders, so it's probably best if he just stays where he is. He can't help it that he knows all the answers and that his teachers like him an awful lot.

"We learned about fractions. And did you know that the arctic hare changes color depending on the season? In the winter, he's white and in the summer, he's brown."

"Fascinating," she smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. "I made a snack for you, sweetheart. It's on the kitchen table. Why don't you eat that and then watch a little TV. Mommy's tired and needs to lie down for a little while."

It never occurs to him to ask why she would put on her makeup and do her hair if she's just going to take a nap.

"Paul should be home around six. Pot roast is in the crock."

Paul. She never says, "your father," or "daddy." It's like she can't bear to say it.

She kisses him on the cheek and shoos him out the door. "Mommy loves you, Jackson," she says and there's something in her voice that catches, something he's never heard before. He turns to look back at her over his shoulder, but her bedroom door has already clicked shut.

Scooby Doo is a rerun, so he changes the channel to PBS. Marty Stauffer's Wild America is always fun to watch. He eats his half of a peanut butter and banana sandwich and about half-way through the show, he hears the familiar sound of water rushing through pipes. The water in his mother's bathroom has kicked on. Mommy must be up from her nap.

The minutes tick by. He watches a few more shows. The smell of his mother's pot roast wafts into the living room from the kitchen making his mouth water. The clock tells him that his father will be home soon. She shouldn't be sleeping when father gets home. Paul Rippner can't stand to see someone being idle and Jackson doesn't want his mother to get into trouble. He gets up off the floor in front of the television and goes up the stairs. It's so quiet up here. He feels... alone... and he's never been alone in his own house before, he's too little. He stands in front of her bedroom door and listens.

There's a silence more silent than anything he's ever experienced coming from behind the door. He's about to reach for the knob but a voice in his head shouts, Don't! Jackson pulls his hand away like he's been burned.

"Mommy?" he whispers, and then louder, "Mommy?"

She doesn't answer and he feels that aloneness again, but more acutely. It zings down his spine and leaves him cold.

He works up the nerve to try the knob again. As the door creeks open, he calls softly to her again.

The room is so dim with all the shades pulled down low, but some fading light gets in so that he can see well enough. She's not in her bed. In fact, it looks perfect, just like it always does, because she makes it up every morning with hospital corners and sheets pulled perfectly tight without a single wrinkle and plumped throw pillows - just the way his father likes it.

The door to the master bathroom is closed, but the light's on. He can see it shining under the door. He moves toward it and again, that voice in his head shouts, Don't! but Jackson does anyway. He puts his hand on the door knob and it turns, albeit stubbornly, in his small hand. The door swings open easily though, and he gets a whiff of all the different scents that make up his mother: her shampoo, her bath salts, the skin cream she uses in the little pink tub, her perfume; but there's something else, too. 

Another scent. Metallic, coppery, like when you suck on a penny. That zings up his spine even colder than before and all the little hairs on his arms are standing up straight and when he finally looks into the bathroom, he just sees red. Red on the white tile floor in big, fat drops, and a little puddle next to the bath mat. Mommy's in the tub, the big white tub with lion's feet that always made him wonder if it could one day decide to walk out of the house. He moves closer to the bathtub and he's about to tap her on her shoulder and wake her up, but as he gets closer, he can see over the lip of the tub and there's more red, all red. Nothing but red in the tub, red like the bathtub's full of Kool-aid. And he touches Mommy's shoulder, right near where her hair is pulled up in a pretty bun on the back of her neck. He taps her with his finger and thinks it's strange because her skin's so white and cool.

The coppery smell stings in his nostrils as he comes around the side of the tub to see her face and he realizes that it's not Kool-aid in the water and that there's something very wrong about how Mommy's eyes are open, staring out the window - staring, but not seeing. Not seeing Jackson when he waves his hand in front of her face and starts crying, "Mommymommymommymommy," his voice growing more shrill by the moment - Mommymommymommy - until it's a chilling, tear-filled shriek.

"Mommaaaaay! Wake uuuuup!"

For the second time in two nights, Jackson's catapulted out of a restless sleep into consciousness. He sits up on the side of the bed, trying to concentrate on bringing his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He breathes evenly and listens to his pulse pounding in his ears and the muted roar of the waves. He can't remember exactly what the dream entailed, but he remembers his mother and he remembers a child screaming and chest-constricting panic…

He feels that panic rise again and pushes the dream away, down, deep down where it can't hurt him. He needs a distraction, something to occupy his brain. His thoughts turn to Lisa, and, oddly enough, the familiarity of her closeness, the phantom image of her face, composes him.

He spent most of yesterday watching Lisa do touristy things in Destin: breakfast at a local cafe, shopping, and then an early dinner at a coastal restaurant. She sat outside and ate her meal, even though it was a little too chilly, and then she roamed the docks, watching the fishermen bring in their last catch of the day. He watched her chat with an older couple preparing to take their boat out. He caught the words dolphins and best time of day and watched as the old man offered Lisa a hand and pulled her up onto the boat with a smile.

He was confident that she'd be out there for at least an hour. He drove back to the Sea Oates, placed an order for pizza, and then called in that surveillance equipment order he'd been waiting on.

A non-descript cable van pulled into the parking lot at around eleven p.m., well after Lisa had come back to the motel. Marshall's guy called Jackson from the van to make his presence known and then hauled the heavy, black, industrial case up the stairs to Jackson's door. He rapped softly and Jackson opened the door to a guy in his mid-forties and with hair too long and stringy to be anything other than a tech-geek. He was so skinny, Jackson was surprised he'd been able to carry that case all the way up the stairs by himself.

"Where do you want it?" the blonde man asked.

"'The bed's fine," Jackson responded.

The guy set down the case and cracked it open. "All the merchandise, exactly as you specified."

Jackson, perusing the collection of gadgets, nodded with approval. "I appreciate that."

"I appreciate that two-grand bonus," the guy grinned.

Jackson clapped him on the back. "Yeah, well, don't spend it all in one place," he said, ushering him out the door. He couldn't wait to get the guy out and sort through all the technological sundries What's-his-name had brought him. To Jackson, it felt like Christmas.

Jackson popped the Micro Real-Time GPS tracker out of the gray sponge-foam it had been lovingly packed in and held it up. Easily concealable, the palm-sized unit could pick up signals from any of the 24+ satellites. It had its own antenna, so that if no satellite signals could be found, the unit could determine its position through the triangulation of cellular towers. It would also work in tunnels and parking garages and a magnet had already been attached to the back.

Jackson ducked his head outside, making sure the coast was clear and edged carefully down the stairs. He strode purposefully toward Lisa's car and, switching on the GPS unit, attached it to the underside of her right rear wheel well. That task complete, he snuck back up to his room and riffled through the rest of the equipment: Toshiba laptop, several tiny wireless pinhole cameras with audio and zoom capabilities, and a portable LCD Receiver with a nice sized screen and multiple channels. It also came with a car adapter, so he could watch live or recorded footage while on the move.

These were the familiar tools of his trade. They weren't as cutting-edge as what he'd had the first time around with Lisa, but they were the best available on the open market. Tomorrow, whatever happened, he'd be ready.

He never stops to ask himself what the point of all of this is; what purpose this surveillance serves. He only knows that he had once thought himself a part of her inner world, but he had been terribly mistaken. He had been nothing more than a spectator. Well, he has the missing piece of the puzzle, now. His understanding of Lisa Reisert is growing exponentially and soon enough he'll solve the mystery that she is. He'll watch on the periphery for a while, bide his time, and then…

And then?

And then he'll have what he wants.

He just needs to figure out what that is.

Lisa's on the other side of this wall, he tells himself. Right now, she's sleeping in her bed in her cappuccino-print pajama bottoms and a tank top and she's curled up on her side with her hands tucked under her chin…

He wants to see her. He's annoyed that he hasn't had an opportunity to plant the cameras in her room.

He has to see her. He needs to know if he's right.

He gets up and crosses the room to their shared wall. Jackson rests his palm on the drywall as if he's listening for her through his skin. He closes his eyes and pictures her - Lisa - and for a moment, all is right with the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Six a.m. brings a pastel sunrise that fills his room with a pale light. His alarm goes off and he slaps it silent with the palm of his hand, rolls over, blinks at the ceiling. He's about to drift off again when he hears the door of Lisa's room open and close. An invisible fist suddenly clenches in his chest and Jackson's body launches out of the bed, almost involuntarily.

Hurryhurryhurry! Don't lose her!

He parts the curtain just enough to see her stepping lightly down the stairs, sans suitcase, in a sweatshirt and shorts, slipping her i-pod into the pocket of her sweatshirt, ponytail swinging around her shoulders. Her face lifts toward the window for a moment and he draws back quickly, letting the curtain fall back into place.

Jackson breathes a sigh of relief. She's just going for a morning run. He recognizes the outfit from when he watched her before: the same hooded Carolina blue field hockey sweatshirt and gray jersey knit shorts. He crosses to the other side of the room, to the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony and watches her come around the corner of the building. She pauses, grabs her left foot and pulls it up behind her, heel to butt, stretching her quadriceps. She switches legs and works on the right one, then stretches out her arms, arches her back, rolls her neck, hops up and down a couple times shaking her arms out, and takes off for the beach. He smiles at the familiar ritual, the way her skin moves over her strong, but shapely leg muscles, the little hop she does, like she's trying to get her internal motor started.

When she's finally out of sight, he walks out onto the balcony, to their shared partition. First making sure the coast is clear, he hops over the balcony, pivots, throws his right leg over her railing, then pulls the left one over. Easy peasy.

He's standing on her balcony and he can see into her room through the glass doors. Her suitcase is neatly packed, everything laid out on the bed. It looks like she's getting ready to move again. He can't blame her. Destin's as dull as tombs. Pretty to look at, but not much going on, at least this time of year.

Jackson glances over his shoulder. He turns back to the door and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, smoothing out the cracks. Surely she wouldn't have left this door unlocked, right? Not with Jackson Rippner out there on the loose and dear old Dad so far away…

He gives the handle an experimental push and then laughs in disbelief. It's his lucky day. The door swooshes open, inviting. Jackson steps inside and he's hit with her scent like a smack to the face. He breathes in deep, recognizing the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash she likes to use. He stands there for a moment remembering his previous little intrusions into her home; pushing back her closet doors, running his hands over the soft sweaters, the smart suits, checking out her pantry, her medicine cabinet, her bedside table. He remembers thinking it odd that he didn't find any birth control or prophylactics. Not even a vibrator. She was a single woman, after all, and this was the electronic age.

A sound from outside jolts him out of his reverie. He quickly scans the room and notices something tucked into the pocket of her duffle bag. He slides it out. It's a brochure – probably a couple of years old – creased and coffee-stained. He wonders where she got it. It's for Biloxi, Mississippi, and there's a big circle around an advertisement for a local bed and breakfast located in Bay St. Louis. Jackson memorizes the address on Bookter Street and slips the brochure back into her bag. He walks around the bed to the small waste bin tucked between the nightstand and the wall. There's not much in it, just a yellow post-it, a crumpled tissue, and an empty soda bottle. Recognizing Lisa's handwriting, he snatches up the post-it.

Hilton Eymard

The Liberty B&B

228-331-5715

Check-in 3 p.m.

Jackson pockets the piece of paper and puts the waste basket back in its place before slipping out the balcony doors. Back in his room, he quickly packs his own duffle bag and the surveillance equipment and hauls them out the door, down the stairs, and stows them safely in the trunk of his Audi. He goes back to gather up his trash and proceeds to wipe down the faucets, the counters, the nightstand – anywhere his prints could be – and then he sits and waits. He hears Lisa return about half an hour later. A few minutes pass and he hears her shower come on. She must have worked up a sweat jogging, despite the chill. He pictures himself out there, running beside her on the beach with the sun coming up over the ocean, legs pumping against the air, lungs gulping for oxygen, blood humming pleasantly in his veins. It's been forever since he had that runner's high. Incarceration had somewhat limited his exercise regime. He stands up, whips his t-shirt over his head and drops to the floor, determined to pull off at least 100 push-ups before Lisa is done with her shower.

He makes it, but just barely. He's a bit winded and sweat has started to trickle down the back of his neck. He's not pleased with his current state. The injuries he sustained at Lisa and her father's hands took a lot out of him and he's not in peak physical shape anymore. He fondly thinks back on the days when he could run a five minute mile. His hand wanders up to the bright pink circular scar that graces the base of his throat. He brushes the pad of his finger against it absentmindedly and a surge of humiliation rushes over him, quickly turning to seething rage. Jackson grits his teeth, jaw muscles working overtime as his gaze swings over to their adjoining wall.

If looks could kill and he had x-ray vision…

Jackson grabs his t-shirt off the bed, swipes it over the back of his neck to mop up the perspiration, then yanks it over his head. He grabs his sunglasses off the table and puts them on. He carefully wipes down the interior and exterior doorknobs before heading out the door. He pulls the brim of his baseball cap down over his face and strolls down the stairs taking his time and whistling a jaunty tune. He's timed it perfectly: he'll check out and wait in the car while Lisa gets dressed and then checks out herself. He already knows where she's headed, so there will be no rushing to catch up with her. Smooth sailing from here on out.

Highway 90 isn't the most direct route, according to Jackson's GPS system, but it's the most scenic for sure. It runs along the southern United States starting in Miami and ends in Van Horn, Texas, about twenty-five miles north of the Mexican border.

After they leave Destin in the rearview mirror, they follow I-90 as it swings up toward Mobile, positioned at the mouth of the bay. Lisa, always one to put a kink in his timetable, gets off the interstate and takes a drive-thru tour of the historic districts of De Tonti Square, Oakleigh Garden, and Old Dauphin Way with their antebellum architectural examples of Greek and Gothic Revival, Italianate, and later styles like Victorian. By late morning, it's warmed up pleasantly. He watches her roll down her car window and hang her arm out. She pulls over a few times to snap off a couple of photos of some truly impressive homes, then gets back in her car and drives on.

"What are you gonna do, Leese, scrapbook these when you're done?" Jackson mutters to himself, annoyed and anxious to get where they're going. But then he wonders why she picked those houses in particular. She probably just likes the way they look. He tries to remember if Lisa has any books on architecture. Regardless, she appears to have good taste judging from the homes she is interested in.

Around two, she stops for lunch at a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint called The Brick Pit out on Old Shell Road. He can smell the rich, smoky, meaty scent in the air as he drives up. The sign out front says "Voted the Best BBQ Joint in the South" and his mouth waters just thinking about it. The place is insanely busy, even though the normal lunch-time rush should be over. There's a line out the door. Lisa doesn't seem to mind, though. She takes her place in line, which looks to be moving fairly quickly, and stands reading a magazine she brought with her from the car. After she disappears inside, Jackson waits five minutes and follows her in. He shouldn't risk it. He knows it's idiotic, but he's starving, damnit, and the place is packed. He also has an itch to see prim Lisa Reisert eat something ridiculously sloppy with her hands.

She doesn't disappoint. Half-hidden by a rotund sixty-something man wearing suspenders and a Confederate flag belt buckle, Jackson watches as Lisa takes her lunch out to the patio to enjoy the fresh air with the other patrons. Jackson orders what she and everyone else seems to have come for: the pulled pork sandwich. He collects his sandwich and fries and sits down at a strategically chosen window seat with Lisa sitting opposite him on the other side of the window, her back half-turned to him. He can keep an eye on her easily from this vantage point, and even catch her in profile when she turns just so. By the time he unwraps his sandwich, she's half done with hers and has finished off her sweet iced tea. The menu flouts that The Brick Pit smokes their pork for thirty hours and Jackson wholeheartedly believes it. At first bite, he's in love. The flavors are a perfect blend of brown sugar and hickory sweetness and spice and it explodes in his mouth. The meat is so tender, he barely has to chew it. But all of that is nothing compared to the kick he gets watching Lisa lick barbecue sauce off her dainty fingers. He forgets to chew and his sandwich almost falls out of his hands as he watches her finish the last bite of her pulled pork, chew, swallow, examine her hands, and then lift her left thumb to her mouth and suck, her cheeks hollowing slightly. She moves to her left index and then middle fingers, and then gives her right hand the same treatment.

Jackson's still sitting there, sandwich in hand, momentarily forgotten, after Lisa has gotten up, thrown away her refuse, and made her way back to her car. He can't get up to follow because he spent just a few moments too long dwelling on Lisa's plush lips, first wrapped around her own digit, and then he thought about them wrapped around his, and then thought about them wrapped around another of his appendages, and if he were to get up now, the whole restaurant would think he was some kind of pervert - as evidenced by the not so small bulge in his pants - and probably call the cops.

As she drives off, he finishes his sandwich, thinks about the road kill he drove past a mile back, dead puppies, dead kittens, clubbed baby seals, anything to get his mind off Lisa. He downs the last of his soda and vows to get laid as soon as possible...after all this...this...whatever this is...is over. He'll go to the nearest bar, find a healthy-looking, non-smoking, non-auburn haired, non-green-eyed girl and fuck her in the back of his car. Maybe then he'll be able to eat a fucking sandwich without getting a hard-on. He shakes his head. Christ.

Back in his car, following the course his GPS tracker has set for him, Jackson rolls down his window. He takes 90 West out of Mobile and within an hour, he's reached Biloxi. The highway sweeps down toward the coast and for the thirty miles from Biloxi to Bay St. Louis, a sparkling ribbon of blue-green hugs the sandy coastline. He sucks in a breath of fresh, salty air and pops in Tom Petty's Greatest Hits - road trip music. He knows where he's going because he knows where Lisa's going and so there's no need to hurry. For the first time since this began, he's beginning to feel control return to him, the urgency to finish the job not so overwhelming. Instead, it's more of a sweet, inevitable destination. A distant siren song - alluring - but worth the wait. Laptop open on the seat beside him, he smiles at the little blip on the screen that represents her. "Won't be long, now," he says fondly.

He cranks up Mary Jane's Last Dance and sings along.

*****

Oh, my my, oh hell yes, honey put on that party dress

Buy me a drink, sing me a song

Take me as I come 'cuz I can't stay long

Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain

I feel summer creepin' in and I'm tired of this town again

\- from "Mary Jane's Last Dance" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers


	6. Chapter 6

I-90 winds through Biloxi, Mississippi, turning into Beach Boulevard, which, as its name suggests, runs right along the beach. Keesler Air Force Base, built during World War II, is a major basic training site. That, and the legalization of gambling in the 1990s, has drawn people to the area. Million-dollar resorts, casinos, and bars have sprouted up on either side of the boulevard, earning Biloxi the moniker, "The Poor Man's Riviera."

Lisa ignores the high-rise Hard Rock Hotel and Casino and the Beau Rivage Resort. She drives right by their neon signs and keeps heading west, past the Air Force base, past the golf courses, past the shopping malls, right out of Biloxi and into Bay St. Louis.

Removed from the bright lights of Biloxi, Bay St. Louis is more sedate, more affluent, than its neighboring communities. Lisa turns off of Beach Boulevard and drives several blocks north, finally arriving at Bookter Street and a quaint bed and breakfast in an older, genteel neighborhood. The historical plaque on the front porch proudly states the house was built in 1859 and the sign on the front lawn declares that this is The Liberty B&B. Lisa pulls into the driveway and Jackson continues on down the street. He circles the block and comes back around in time to see Lisa disappearing into the front door, followed by a white-haired sixty-something man carrying her bag.

"Shit," Jackson mutters. This is what he had been afraid of. Lisa staying at a mom and pop B&B certainly complicates things. There's no easy way for him to continue his surveillance. The inn is rather large, but still, it's close quarters. There's virtually no chance he wouldn't run into her at some point. The nature of these overly-friendly inn proprietors are a given. Guests are expected to join in, mingle, and if you don't... well, you're sure to draw attention to yourself and that's the one thing Jackson doesn't want.

He sits there, car idling, as he contemplates his options. "Shitshitshit!" he shouts. He pounds his fist on the steering wheel and is promptly answered by a Buick honking behind him. He jumps, checks the rear view mirror and realizes he's blocking traffic. He steps on the gas and about half a block away, pulls over, putting the Audi in park. Jackson glances back at the bed and breakfast in his side view mirror.

What are you going to do? Are you going to sit here all day or are you going to fucking do something?

He could move on, find another hotel, and wait her out. She can't stay here forever, now can she? But when he contemplates that choice, something inside him shoots it down immediately. He has to be in proximity of her. He can't let her out of his sight, even if he has to camp out in his car - though the prospect of not getting a shower tonight grates on him. He's felt a bit grungy since he didn't have time to shower after his morning workout. He's not quite ripe yet, but by tomorrow morning he will be.

He looks at his watch. It's been fifteen minutes. Lisa's sure to be checked in by now, in her room and settling in. Jackson growls and scrubs his hands over his face. He's made his decision.

He yanks his seatbelt off, leans over and rips the glove box open, takes out the Sig. Moving to the trunk, he pops it open, pulls his duffle bag out, and slips the handgun inside. He hauls out the shiny equipment case and slams the trunk down. Jackson pulls his sunglasses out of his jeans pocket, puts them on, and moves, inevitably, toward the inn.

"Hell, son," the white-haired geriatric behind the front desk calls to him. "I coulda helped you carry that in," he says, nodding toward the obviously heavy case in Jackson's right hand.

Jackson takes a fleeting glance around the front room. Lisa's nowhere in sight. He takes another step inside.

"Nah," he says, slipping easily into the guy's local accent. "I can handle it. It's just camera equipment. My sister's getting married, so..."

"Aw, well congratulations to her! Which church she gettin' married at?"

Jackson sets his bags down at the front desk. "Uh... You know, I can't remember," he chuckles, feigning embarrassment.

"Our Redeemer? Or, uh... Our Lady of Perpetual Hope?"

Jackson slaps his forehead. "That's the one." He laughs.

The old guy chuckles. "So ya need a room, I take?"

"Yes, sir," Jackson nods, adopting the customary "southern manners" of the locals: yes-ma'am, no-ma'am, yes-sir, no-sir. If they think he's one of them, he's less likely to stand out. "It was all kinda short notice," he continues, "but that's my baby sister for ya."

"Yep, yep," the man nods in agreement. "When a woman makes up her mind, that's the end of it, right there." He extends one big, sun-spotted paw to Jackson. "Hilton Eymard. Pleased to meet'cha."

"John Ryan." Jackson shakes his hand, matching the old guy's firmness.

"Well, you're in luck. It's our off-season and Mardi Gras is over now, so there's plenty-a rooms available. How long you stayin'?"

"Well, the wedding is Saturday. I might bum around a bit, visit some friends in the area afterwards..."

"Well that's fine, that's fine. We're not booked up or nothin.' I do have to charge you in advance, though. You know how it is..."

"Oh, no, that's all right."

"I'll put ya down for four nights, then? If you have to leave us early, I'll refund the difference to ya when ya check out."

"Sounds good." Jackson hands over his credit card.

"Got a couple of nice rooms available," Hilton says, pulling out a binder containing photos and the amenities of each room. "Fireplaces. Expanded cable. Jacuzzi tubs... Now this one here, the Andrew Jackson suite, that's got a really pretty view of the property..."

Jackson glances furtively towards the stairs. This guy could talk forever. And what if Lisa decides to come down and...

"...If you'd gotten here not twenty minutes ago, I'd a given you the room next door, the Jeff Davis room. It's smaller, but it's got a nice little balcony facing the gardens ..."

"No, that's fine," Jackson says absentmindedly, but then he hears a squeak on the stairs behind him. His whole body tenses and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

"The niece of one of my old friends just checked in, and I put her in that one. Real nice girl, but I think she's havin' a rough time. She just showed up out of the blue..."

Out of the corner of his eye, a business man passes by the front desk and waves to Hilton on his way out the front door. Hilton waves back and Jackson lets out the breath he was holding.

"Say," Hilton continues, "you bringin' a date to your sister's weddin'?"

"I'm sorry?" Jackson asks, confused, momentarily lost in relief.

"I said, if ya ain't got a date to take with ya to that weddin', ya oughtta ask that little girl in the room next door."

Jesus Christ, the irony. Jackson barks out a laugh. "The girl next door, huh? Is she pretty?"

"As a picture." Hilton leans in. "Between you and me, if I were thirty years younger...Look out!" he laughs. "Hey, you want me to introduce you to her?

"Oh, no! No, that's okay," Jackson says vehemently. Hilton just looks puzzled. Jackson flinches. "Uh... I'm engaged," he blurts out, "so, ya know..."

"Oh! Well, congratulations to you, too," Hilton grins.

"Yeah, she runs a hotel, so it's impossible for her to get a few days off," Jackson continues, the lies rolling off his tongue with ease. "Especially on such short notice." Jesus, stop fucking talking or you're going to get caught! His mouth snaps shut abruptly. He clears his throat.

"Where do I sign?"

Hilton blinks, "Oh. Right here," and slides the paper receipt across the desk to him. Jackson signs, passes it back, and before he can object, Hilton is around to his side of the desk and pulling his duffel bag out of Jackson's hand.

"Well, all right then, John, you just follow me, huh? I'll get your bag."

Jackson follows him up the highly polished stairs, lugging the silver case with him. He is terrified the guy will stop to talk to him out in the hallway - he can easily envision Lisa poking her head out her door to say hi, seeing Jackson, and freaking the fuck out - but Hilton seems to sense Jackson is in a rush, so he unlocks the door without ceremony and leads him inside.

"The restaurant is closed for the season, but I like to cook, so all guests are invited to come down and have what I'm havin.' The cook will be back at six a.m., though, to get breakfast on. Sarah makes some fantastic stuffed crepes, let me tell you."

"That sounds great, thanks." He slips a twenty into Hilton's palm and shakes his hand again. "I've just got some calls to make, things to finalize, you know, before the big day?"

"Sure, sure. I'll leave you to it, then. Let me know if you need anything."

Jackson smiles his friendly, perfectly even smile. "Will do."

*****

He's not sure where he is, but he knows he's in a parking garage and it's nighttime. The concrete glistens with precipitation in the yellowish light of the halogen lamps. There's few cars parked here - a teal Taurus, a white Camry, a rusty silver Fiesta, a dented Dodge minivan - and distantly he hears a pounding baseline coming from a nearby club.

From behind one of the parked vehicles – the old, powder blue minivan – he hears a scuffling, a voice whispering harshly, a scraping sound of metal on pavement, a dull thud – noises which draw him closer. Like a shadow, he moves, silent and stealthy, taking care to make sure his leather shoes don't creak. He approaches this dim corner of the garage with a sense of dread. He's not sure where it's coming from, but he feels it. And a moment before he comes around the rear bumper of the van, Jackson knows without a doubt what he's going to see - and he's filled with an incalculable rage. 

The first sight that greets him is a dirty white t-shirt stretched taut across a man's broad back. Two stockinged feet - one white pump half on, the other a foot away, half under the adjacent van - are sticking out from underneath the dark-haired man. Jackson can't help but flash back to the Wizard of Oz and think of the witch's feet poking out from under Dorothy Gale's house. 

The man curses as he struggles with the girl underneath him. She can't form words because of the big, dirty hand covering her mouth, but she's fighting, trying to kick, even though he's straddling her thighs. Her hands are fisting in his shirt and she's trying to hold him away from her. The man doesn't seem to care for that much, though. He leans back on his haunches and pulls her torso back with him, fist clutching the roots of her hair and the other hand still gripping her jaw. Jackson can see her bruised and scratched face clearly for the first time - just as the guy slams her skull into the quarter panel of the powder-blue van - once, twice - and flings her back down on the concrete.

The girl stops fighting after that. She only flinches a little when the man reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a box knife, and presses it to her throat. He mutters some disgusting threat as he undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the buckle and rasp of the zipper sounding obscenely loud to Jackson's ears. 

Jackson moves silently closer, and over the guy's shoulder, he catches the girl's bleary, mascara-streaked gaze. Her unfocused, deep-green eyes suddenly lock with Jackson's pale blue ones. Jackson lays a finger to his lips, motioning her to be silent, and while there's no recognition there, there is an understanding. She nods once, slightly, and lays still. 

The man's jeans are slipping down his backside as he struggles to pull down her pantyhose and underwear. He's reaching for his dick when Jackson lands a blow to the guy's temple with his fist. The man grunts and goes limp for a moment, falling forward onto the girl. She scrambles out from under his dead weight and curls up against the wall, as far as she can get from her attacker.

Jackson delivers a solid kick to the guy's abdomen as he's kneeling there on his hands and knees. The box knife flies out of his hand and lands, conveniently enough, about a foot from Jackson's shoe. Another kick to the gut, and the guy's sprawled out on the ground. He groans and rolls over onto his back. Jackson sees that it's an average face - nothing there to hint at the monster behind it, just a slightly crooked nose, nicotine-stained teeth, greasy hair combed back, and the pathetic combination of french fries and cheap cologne. 

Jackson is filled with an unspeakable loathing for this man as he glares up at Jackson from the flat of his back. Jackson rewards the insolent fucker with a punch in the face. He feels the pop of the guy's nose breaking against his knuckles and when he pulls his fist back, there's a warm splash of blood on his hand from splitting the guy's lip wide open. Jackson snorts, collecting a wad of phlegm in the back of his throat, then hocks it on the groaning, twitching lump at his feet.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Jackson hisses at him, sending a swift kick to his ribs. He hears a crunch and the guy yelps.

"Nothing!" her would-be rapist gasps.

"Nothing? Nothing!" Jackson growls. He grabs the guy by the hair and forcibly turns his head in Lisa's direction. "Does that look like 'nothing' to you?" he hisses. "Does she look like she's having a good time?" The guy flinches and turns his face away. 

"Open your eyes," Jackson growls. The guy shakes his head, and tries to turn away further. Jackson leans down and picks up the box knife, sliding the blade out even further. "OPEN YOUR EYES OR I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING EYELIDS OFF!" he shouts.

The guy whimpers and his eyes flutter open, wincing at the blade so near his face.

"This thing?" Jackson says calmly, waving the box knife in front of the man's face, "This is a fucking amateur tool - which is why I always bring my own." Jackson reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a twelve-inch serrated Ka-Bar. It gleams wickedly under the lights, curving like a smile.

The man heaves, bloody phlegm expelling from his mouth. Jackson glances over at the girl huddled in the corner. The expression on her tear-streaked face is one of combined horror and fascination. Their eyes meet again and another look takes its place: vengeance. Her lips are parted expectantly and she watches them, unblinking, silently willing Jackson to hurt this man a little more. Willing Jackson to make him pay.

It's a disturbing expression on her and it jolts him out of his blood-lust momentarily. "Turn away," he commands, motioning with the Ka-Bar for her to turn her face to the wall.

She hesitates for a moment. "TURN AWAY!" he snarls, pointing the Ka-Bar in her direction. She jumps, startled by his rage being focused on her for a moment. She swiftly turns her body toward the wall, covers her ears with her hands.

See no evil, hear no evil.

Lisa hums and tries not to listen as Rippner begins his bloody work.

*****

Jackson opens his eyes and takes in the room he's lying in. It's a moment before he figures out where he is. He turns over and glances at the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. It reads 6:50 p.m.

His dream had been so real, he actually holds his hands up in the fading light to make sure there's no blood on them. Just a second ago he'd been disemboweling Lisa's rapist in a parking garage. He feels his heartbeat slowing and the last tinges of adrenaline are leaving his blood-stream. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, willing his body to calm down.

He can't understand it. He's gone years – years! – without remembering a single dream and now it seems it's all he does. His subconscious life is more active than his waking one and Lisa seems to have the starring role these days. In the eight weeks that he watched her in Miami, he never once dreamed about her. Why would he? Does a bank teller go home and dream about counting money? Does a nurse go home and dream about taking patients' blood pressures? No, of course not. But now it's different. Now it's personal. He tells himself there's nothing unusual about that. His days revolve around her, why shouldn't his nights?

Still, he can't wrap his head around it: in one dream he kills her, in another he fucks her, and in yet another he saves her. And this underlying current of desperation he feels is exhausting. He needs this to be over, of that he's certain. Concerns are starting to grow in his mind. He wonders if those skeletons in his closet are truly locked away, or if those deep, dark secrets he shoved down inside him are going to come boiling to the surface, exploding like a pressure cooker. It scares him. He doesn't want to think of them, doesn't want to deal with that screaming child in a bloody bathroom or his mother – God, his mother – or that son of a bitch who called himself his father. "I'll give you something to cry about."

He needs to check in. He knows he should. The longer he puts it off, the worse it will be. He owes it to Richard – Richard, who's been like a father to him. Richard, who's always gone to bat for him, who orchestrated and funded Jackson's disappearing act from Miami Federal, no doubt. The old guy wields a lot of power as Chairman of the Consortium, but his power is by no means absolute: he has the board to answer to. The longer Jackson's AWOL, the worse it looks for him and for Richard.

But if he calls, they'll have his location. He has no doubt the goon squad will be banging down his door within four hours, dragging his ass onto a private jet; and then she'll be out of his reach and this will all have been for nothing. This can't have been for nothing. Maybe he can stall for more time; make contact through Marshall. It's unfair to put his geeky friend in the middle, he knows, but he can't leave with all this unfinished business. He won't.

She has to answer for what she did to him. She has to know…

*****

"Well, I wish I could say it was nice to hear from you, but it's not!" Marshall snaps. "You know what I'm supposed to do? Trace your call and contact Richard Hamilton on his personal line with your whereabouts."

"Please don't?" Jackson asks, trying not to sound desperate.

Marshall sighs. "Don't do this to me, man. Don't ask me to put my ass on the line. Not again."

Jackson can feel a migraine coming on.

"Hello? Jackson, are you there?"

"I'm here."

"Do you understand the gravity of the situation? You're AWOL, man. You've gone off the reservation. You're refusing to come in for your debriefing of the Keefe assignment…"

"I'm not refusing! I'm just asking for more time!"

"It's the same thing to them. This looks bad, you understand? The natives are restless, Jackie. The board is demanding answers. They want blood. Hamilton can only offer so many excuses, ya know? These people are criminals and criminals tend to think the worst of people. So they're starting to wonder if you botched the job on purpose or something."

Jackson pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, trying to relieve the building pressure. "Just…tell them you couldn't get a trace. Tell them I'm tying up loose ends. I'll be done in three days, tops. Then I'll come in. That's it."

There's silence on the other end of the line. "Are you really going to kill her?" Marshall sounds skeptical.

Of course, he wants to say. But he doesn't. He can't quite commit to that particular course of action.

"I have to go now, Marsh. Talk to you soon."

"Jackson…"

*****

Just as he's hanging up with Marshall, he hears Lisa's door close and recognizes her particular gait as she heads down the hallway to go downstairs.

Jackson carefully unlocks his door and slowly turns the doorknob, trying desperately to keep the antique from squeaking. He pads down the hall in his bare feet, taking notice of which floorboards make the most noise – almost all of them, damn it – and stands at the top of the stairs, listening.

He hears Hilton's booming drawl and then he hears her – Lisa – her soft, dulcet tone that's somewhere between alto and soprano. He hears snippets of conversation: Hilton's laugh and "fire dog" and "Have fun!"

She must be going out – a golden opportunity for him. He thinks about waiting for her, surprising her, wrapping his hand around her mouth as she comes into the dark room, whispering softly in her ear, "Don't scream, now." Jackson closes his eyes and thinks about how it would be: her silky curls brushing his cheek, her lips and warm breath against the palm of his hand. He knows just how she'll smell – her shampoo and that exotic perfume she wears with notes of Asian pear, mimosa petals, rose, and Himalayan cedarwood. He thinks about how her breathing and her heart rate will increase, how, if he were to place his palm over her heart, he would feel it pounding against his hand.

But, no. It's too risky. Not here. She's not some anonymous tourist here, though completing such a challenge would certainly do wonders for his ego.

He waits twenty minutes in his room, then picks the lock on her door. He steps inside her suite. It's smaller than his, but it's got a nice little balcony that overlooks the gardens. When he steps out there, he can see his window next door – luckily, not into his room – and it's not that far. The roof sticks out there and he thinks he could easily scale over it to get to her balcony. He goes back inside, careful to leave the balcony doors unlatched. On his way back to his room, he takes note of the best places to hide some of those tiny cameras now that he'll finally get some use out of them.

He carefully sets up each camera for the best angle: one for the bed, one for the sitting area, and one angled at the bathroom. He remembers busting Marshall's chops once upon a time when he volunteered to put a camera in Lisa's shower. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want her out of his sight for a moment, but if he happens to catch a glimpse, well, he'll look away.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Three hours later, he's back in his room, pacing the floor. He's readjusted the camera angles three times already, watched some mindless reality TV and showered.

She's still gone. It's been three – scratch that – three and a half hours and she's still not back yet. Where the hell could she be? Jackson jiggles his knee restlessly while he flips through the channels. He paces, does some cardio, takes another shower and jerks off. He does not think of Lisa Reisert.

By the time he gets out of the bathroom, it's half an hour to midnight and she's nowhere to be found. Jackson throws on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved flannel over his t-shirt, his baseball cap pulled on over his wet hair.

He tracks her down fairly easy, spotting her white Camry about six blocks away at the Fire Dog Saloon. The place is pretty busy, but he gets lucky with a parking spot and he slips in and finds a corner booth. He spots Lisa at a table next to the bar. She's dressed fairly conservatively; not very different from what she was wearing when he first met her, just a little more casual - a black a-line skirt with a teal and plum argyle cardigan.

A group of rowdy young men in Class C uniforms are hanging out at the bar, probably from the Air Force base in Biloxi. One of their friends, a tall, gawky-but-good-looking kid who can't be older than twenty, is sitting across from Lisa talking animatedly. Jackson's eyes narrow, taking in his casual uniform. It's the weekend, he's on liberty. There's no reason for him and his buddies to be in uniform…unless, of course, they're trolling for chicks. Jackson once heard a former colleague-slash-ex-marine refer to his Class A's as his A.P.D.'s: Automatic Panty Droppers. Christ, if Lisa falls for this, he swears he'll lose all respect for her.

Just then, his waitress - Jessica is her name – brings him his Budweiser and, with a smile and a wink, lets him know that she gets off in ten minutes – with or without him. He's tempted. God, is he tempted. She's cute, in a white-trash kind of way. She'd probably be up for anything and the one-on-one time with his right hand just isn't cutting it anymore.

He's about to let Jessica drag him off to the parking lot when he hears her. He glances over at Lisa, head thrown back, brilliant smile lighting up her face, laughing. Flyboy's eating it up with a spoon, a shit-eating grin on his face, probably real proud of whatever lame-ass joke he just cracked. Jackson's good humor is instantly gone and his face hardens. He turns his cold gaze to Jessica, who instantly recoils. He tries to temper his expression with a smile.

"Maybe next time."

She nods, shoots him a pathetic attempt at a smile, and scampers off, probably thinking she just dodged a bullet and thanking her lucky stars. He takes a swallow of his beer and turns back to watch Lisa.

A few minutes later, she gets up from her chair, lays a polite hand on the kid's arm, and excuses herself from the table. Heading towards the bathroom, she stops at the juke box. Lisa leans over, perusing through the song selections, the fabric of her skirt pulling taut over her backside as her thighs and hips shift unconsciously to the music. Jackson sits up and takes notice, as does every other man in the bar. Completely unaware, Lisa makes her choices and pops a couple of dollars worth of quarters in before heading off to the ladies.

As soon as she's gone, the group of airmen surrounds their buddy like a pack of hyenas: cat-calling and making all sorts of vulgar remarks and hand gestures. Jackson takes the opportunity to get another beer from the bar. The bartender slides one down to him; Jackson drops a twenty down to pay and close out his tab. Just as he's turning around, he sees the Airman he's dubbed Iceman - because if this were Top Gun, this guy would be the ringleader of the jackasses - slip a small baggie of white powder into Flyboy's hand. The kid hesitates taking it at first, but then relents. He looks around nervously and quickly pockets the powder. Jackson assumes its coke. Ten minutes from now, if he were to step into the men's room, he's sure he'd find Iceman, Flyboy, and friends kneeling around the john, snorting lines of blow like they're in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.

As Jackson's headed back to his booth, he hears Iceman in his obnoxiously loud voice trying to talk over the jukebox and the din of the other customers.

"Dude, you ain't closing this deal without help."

"Yeah, you don't want to turn twenty-one without having your cherry popped, do you?" Hyena #2 says, cackling.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" Iceman leers.

Jackson slips back into the booth, and watches as three of the five head for the exit, turning back to salute Flyboy and give him the thumbs up before they duck out the front door, laughing their asses off all the way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lisa reappear and begin winding her way back through the tables to Flyboy. Iceman kicks him under the table and shoots him challenging look, and Flyboy plucks the baggie out of his front pocket. He hesitates again, looking around guiltily, and then quickly drains the contents of the baggie into Lisa's Long Island iced tea, giving it a swirl with her straw. Flyboy shoots Iceman a nervous half-smile and then turns to greet Lisa when she arrives at their table.

Jackson cannot believe his fucking eyes. He looks around in disbelief to see if anyone else - the bartender, other patrons - just saw what he saw; but no one's paying attention. Righteous indignation comes over him and he's about to stand up and charge over there when he remembers. Just how likely would it be that Lisa would believe him over this phony Dudley Do-right? And what would prevent her from freaking the fuck out when she sees him? He briefly entertains the idea of calling the cops and skipping out, but that would add a lot of variables to this equation and that could mean more trouble for him.

Don't drink it. Don't drink it, he silently wills her. But Jackson watches, hopes dashed, as Lisa downs the rest of her iced tea.

Fuck! Jackson presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to decide on a course of action. When he looks up again, Lisa's pulling Flyboy onto the dance floor with a smile because her songs are playing. The first one up is Mott the Hoople's All the Young Dudes, aptly followed by David Bowie's Young Americans. Flyboy spins Lisa around the floor while Jackson seethes in the corner. She's a good dancer. Of course she is. He knew she would be. He could tell by the ways she moves from point A to point B. She looks a hell of a lot better out there than that sleazebag she's with. The kid's clearly uncomfortable in his own body - like he got a growth spurt his senior year and still hasn't gotten used to the change. Flyboy looks like he doesn't know what to do with his arms and he trips over his own feet at least twice; but the kid recovers rather smoothly when he dips Lisa during the saxophone solo in Young Americans, that bastard.

Jackson predicts that the next song will be something by T-Rex, since it sounds like Lisa's got a thing for 70s glam rock, but he's proved wrong when Tommy James and the Shondells' version of Crimson and Clover comes over the jukebox speakers. It's a slower song and Lisa grins shyly and pulls Flyboy in for a slow dance. Jackson watches her sway in time to the music and he begins to doubt that there was anything harmful in that baggie.

But then he begins to notice Lisa's movements are gradually becoming more sluggish, clumsy. Her eyes start to take on an unfocused, glazed look, and a minute later, she puts her hand to her temple and frowns. She opens her eyes wide and blinks a few times, trying to clear her vision. Flyboy manages a halfway convincing concerned act, accompanied by hovering and offers of bringing her coffee and water.

He walks Lisa over to her chair and she kind of pours herself into it. I didn't think I drank that much. Jackson reads her lips before her head wobbles on her rubbery neck and she's down for the count. Like a vulture, Iceman slips down from his perch on a nearby bar stool and takes charge of the situation. He motions toward the exit, no doubt prompting Flyboy to get Lisa on her feet and out the door. But Flyboy seems to be having second thoughts. Ice's expression turns cold, nostrils flaring, but eerily calm as he gets up in Flyboy's face and Jackson recognizes that expression for what it is: a sociopath on the verge of getting what he wants and then being told 'no.' He's seen it before. You can't be in his line of work and not cross paths with your garden-variety psychopath once or twice.

Jackson takes the opportunity to slip out the door while they're hashing their shit out. He strolls purposefully around the side of the building to his car, opens the glove box and retrieves his Ka-bar, snapping the holster to his belt. Next, he tucks the Sig in the back of his pants, letting his flannel overshirt fall back over it, concealing the gun from sight. As he's coming around the corner of the building, he hears shoes on gravel and stops sharply. Iceman barks an order at Flyboy. "Just go get the goddamned car!" he growls.

He watches Flyboy head off in the opposite direction to retrieve their car. They must have had to park a good distance away on the street if it was as packed when they arrived as it was at midnight when Jackson showed up. Jackson grits his teeth in frustration. He would have preferred to pick them off individually, but if Flyboy comes back, things might get dicey. He runs this thumb over the Ka-Bar's sheath, feels the familiar weight of the knife at his hip.

Jackson peeks around the corner. The first thing he sees is Lisa, propped up against the side of the building. Her eyes are closed and her head is lolling on her shoulders. Iceman is muttering half to her, half to himself, one arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her upright.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We're gonna find a nice, romantic spot on the beach and have some real fun. How does that sound, huh?" He leers down at her. "Are you gonna be nice to my buddy Jason, there? He shouldn't take too long - he's a virgin, you know - and then I'll take care of you. I don't mind sloppy seconds and I can go all night," he croons. "Does that sound good to you? Yeah, we'll be on our way in just a minute. Just as soon as that fucking idiot gets back."

Lisa mumbles something, her eyes cracking open. She tries to take a step and her knees give out.

Ice catches her, chuckling at her uncoordinated efforts. "Oopsie-daisy! On your feet, princess. Don't go falling down and skinning up those pretty knees, now."

He shoves Lisa's shoulders against the wall, lifts her skirt, and cranes his neck to get a look at what she's wearing underneath.

Ice leans close to her ear, murmuring. "Those are pretty, princess." He runs his index finger over her skin and starts to slip his hand in when the rage that was simmering in Jackson suddenly goes supernova.

That calm sense of control settles over him, like slipping into a pair of comfortable shoes, and he takes a deep, cleansing breath and steps quickly and silently around the corner of the building.

"Hey man, are you her gynecologist or something?" Jackson asks, expression neutral, voice even.

Ice's head jerks in his direction, surprised at the interruption, and quickly extricates his hand from Lisa's underwear. The hem of her skirt falls back down into place.

"What?"

Jackson takes a step closer. "I said, you better be her fuckin' doctor."

Ice laughs nervously. "What, are you her brother or something?"

Jackson shakes his head. "No. I'm not even her boyfriend. Just a concerned citizen. Now, why don't you take a walk?"

Ice's eyes narrow, lips curled back in a snarl. "Look, it's none of your business, man, so why don't you fuck off?"

Jackson's unimpressed, so Ice takes a threatening step toward him. "I will fuck you up..."

"Well, you can try, but that little experiment will end in tears, my friend. So again, for the cheap seats, walk the fuck away. Or," he says, shrugging, "we can go right now."

Ice, who has about six inches and forty pounds on Jackson, shakes his head in disbelief.

Jackson glances at his wristwatch. "It's past my bedtime. Make a choice."

Ice scoffs and grins meanly. "I'm going to enjoy ripping your head off, pretty boy."

He charges toward Jackson like an incensed bull, but stops short a second later when he's got the muzzle of Jackson's Sig in his face.

"See this here?" Jackson asks calmly, nodding at the gun. "This is a Sig Sauer P229R - the weapon of choice for agents in the Secret Service and MI5. Now, unlike some handguns that will just kill you outright, this one will most certainly take a large chunk of your skull and brain with it; and it is aimed at your head to stress my insistence that you do exactly as I tell you."

"B-be cool, man," Ice stammers.

"What's your name?"

"Peter!"

"Peter, did you know that when you're about to soil yourself get a little twitch in your eye? Now, what exactly did you put in this nice girl's drink?"

"W-what?"

"Don't play dumb. What did you slip in her drink?"

"I didn't put anything in her drink!"

Jackson sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Okay, you convinced your lackey to do it, then. Stop arguing semantics and tell me what the white powder was or your mom's gonna have to bury you closed-casket."

Peter snarls at him. "I'm not telling you shit! Why don't you shove that gun up your ass?"

"Because it would hurt a lot, Peter," Jackson says logically. "Now, what was in the drink?"

"Fuck you!"

"Wrong answer. I guess I'll have to ask Jason." Jackson's finger itches to pull the trigger. Instead, he flips the gun around in one smooth motion so that he's holding the muzzle. He brings the butt of the gun down hard against Peter's cheekbone and lays it open to the bone. The force of the blow practically spins his head around. By the time he's gathered his wits, Jackson clocks him again, this time in the jaw. There's a dull crack of the bone breaking and Peter screams in pain and goes down. Jackson squats down over his chest and brings the butt down on Peter's temple, one more time for good measure, knocking him unconscious.

Jackson stands up, wipes a spatter of blood off his cheek.

He looks over at Lisa who looks like she's sleeping on her feet, her cheek pressed to the rough stucco of the wall. He's about to go over and check on her when he hears a car pull up. The kid formerly known as Flyboy jumps out and starts toward them. It takes him a second before he realizes his buddy is on the ground and a stranger's standing there with a gun pointed at him.

"Oh, shit," he says, eyes wide.

"Oh shit is right, fucker."Jackson tucks the Sig in the back of his pants and launches himself at the guy. Jason attempts to back up, turn and run, but the car blocks his path. He tries to dart around it, but Jackson's already on him. The force of their bodies meeting sends them up over the hood of the car. Jackson flattens the kid's nose with his fist, then grabs him by his ears and smashes his skull into the windshield.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" the kid bawls, like he expected this would happen all along; like he's getting the ass-whooping he knows he deserves.

Jackson grips him around the throat and calmly squeezes. He reaches behind him and pulls the Sig out. He pries open Jason's mouth and slips the barrel of the gun in.

"How does that taste?" Jackson inquires.

"Mmrfamrmmnthfrm!"

Jackson frowns, plays confused. "I'm sorry, what was that?" He removes the barrel from Jason's mouth.

"Please," the kid whispers.

"Jason, I'm only going to ask you this once. What did you put in that pretty girl's cup?"

The kid's eyes dart around nervously and he hesitates to answer. Jackson shrugs and starts squeezing the kid's jaw open to slide the muzzle in again.

"This time, I'm taking the safety off..." Jackson warns.

"It was Liquid X, all right? Two pills crushed up, that's it!"

"GHB? The date-rape drug. How fitting. How many milligrams would you say?"

"I dunno, a hundred fifty, two hundred?"

"That's an awful lot of drugs for one girl, Jason."

"I know. I know! It was so fucking bad! I didn't want to, I swear! Pete made me! Pete... Oh, god, is he dead?"

"If I were you, I would worry a little less about Peter and more about myself. Like, am I still going to be alive in five minutes."

The kids starts sobbing.

"There's one way to get out of this, Jason, and that's to do exactly as I say, got it?"

The kid nods enthusiastically.

"Good. Follow me."

Flyboy follows Jackson to his car. He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a black Sharpie. "Today, class, we're going to write an essay about how 'no' means 'no.'"

He walks Jason back over to Peter's unconscious figure. "Now stand still." Jackson puts the lid of the Sharpie between his teeth and yanks the cap off. Holding the gun in his left hand, and the Sharpie in his right, he begins to write on Jason's forehead in big, bold capital letters:

DATE RAPIST

"Take your shirt off," Jackson orders. Jason complies, quickly unbuttoning his shirt. Jackson goes to work and a minute later, Jason's chest and back are covered in a detailed description of his crime.

"Now Jason, you are going to take this magic marker and write exactly what I tell you. But first, you need to take Peter's shirt off."

A few minutes later Peter has a matching epigraph on his forehead and a torso that reads:

CAUTION!

I am such a pathetic loser

that I have to roofie girls

to get laid.

DATE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

"I want your keys." Jackson holds out his hand expectantly. Jason drops them in his hand without argument. "Now your pants and your cell phone. His, too," he says, nodding to Peter. "Don't be shy."

"Please, don't kill me!" Jason blubbers. "I swear, I won't ever do it again!"

"Of course you won't. And do you know why? Because you're a smart young man who learns from his mistakes, right?"

Jason just stands there, shivering in his underwear, too scared to move or say anything. He wipes the blood pouring out of his broken nose with the back of his hand and nods.

Jackson bundles the clothes up under his arm and pockets the cell phones. He walks over to where he left Lisa, who's now slumped against the building.

He crouches down in front of her and pauses a moment to reflect on how truly fucking weird the universe is. It's like fate has dropped her right in his lap. She's right in front of him and he can smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her body radiating out to him in the chilly night air. He should grab her by the hair and drag her off to the car - fuck these Air Force pricks. At this point, he doesn't give a shit about witnesses, doesn't care about all the suspicions that would be raised when neither of them ever check out of the Liberty bed and breakfast.

"Leese?" he calls softly to her, running the back of his finger down her cheek, his nerve-endings firing and sending little flashes of sensory overload to his brain. Just like the first time he touched her face, he's amazed at how soft her skin is. "Wakey-wakey."

She lifts her head and her eyelids flutter open. Her pupils are large and dilated inside her deep-green irises. Jackson prepares himself for the recognition, the widening of her eyes, the terrified gasp, the pallor as the blood drains from her face.

Instead, she smiles sweetly, completely stoned out of her mind. He's only mildly disappointed at her reaction, because, damn, she's got a pretty smile.

"Hi," she says, blinking docilely.

Jackson grins, suddenly very aware of all the fun he can have with her in this condition. "Hey, doll. It's time to go home, now." She stares at him blankly. "Home. Home?" he reiterates, as though he's talking to a very young child or a very old person. He slips his hands under her arms and hoists her up onto her feet, reveling in the weight of her body against his, the closeness of her, the rightness of it. Something stirs inside of him.

"They're playing my song," she smiles dreamily and wraps her arms around his neck the way junior high kids slow dance.

"Yes, they are," he agrees, trying to remember if auditory hallucinations are common with GHB use. "We're gonna get in the car, now."

She nods, smiling. "Okay."

He turns, throwing one arm around her waist. He guides her over to his car and puts her in the back seat and, just to be on the safe side, he enables the child-safety locks.

Turning back to Jason, he points one finger at him. "Now, I'm taking your car keys and your cell phones and I'll be disposing of them somewhere close by, so it's not theft. Don't even think about reporting this to the cops, unless you want them to ask you some uncomfortable questions about the interesting graffiti covering your body. Let's just think of this as a learning experience, shall we? Oh, and here's some advice: pick better friends, huh? Next time, it might be a prison sentence."

Jackson waves goodbye and ducks into the car. He speeds off just as a group of kids are coming out of the bar. In the sideview mirror, he sees them laughing and pointing at the two jerk-offs he just left behind in a cloud of dust. Two blocks away, he rolls down the window and tosses the keys. A block later he pitches cell phone number one and cell phone number two, making sure to run over both of them with his front tire.

He angles the rearview mirror down so he can get a glimpse of Lisa in the back seat. She's curled up, apparently asleep, hands pillowed under her head, mouth parted; but quite suddenly she sits up with a gasp, blinking at her surroundings.

"Was there a dog in here just now?" she asks.

He's not sure he heard her right. "What?"

She looks around, perplexed. "I thought..." she lays back down, but it's more of a slide down since she seems to have lost motor function.

"Hey," Jackson calls to her. "You doin' okay back there, Leese?"

"My hands are ginormous," she mumbles.

He doesn't really know how to respond to that. "Okay," he says.

Jackson steps on the gas and they're back at the Liberty in two minutes time. He parks, turns off the ignition, and gets out. He opens the back door and, surprise, surprise, Lisa's wide awake and babbling about god-only-knows what. He slips her pumps off and pulls her out of the car.

"...And I was watching the New Years Rockin' Eve - Ryan Seacrest hosts it now - and they had Dick Clark come on and he had this...this real dippy grin on his face. And then he was talking and he was all slurring his words and I was, like, 'Is he drunk?' And Cynthia just looks at me and she's, like, 'No, he had a stroke!' I felt really, really bad because Cynthia's grandpa had just had a stroke the week before. It wasn't on purpose, or anything. I'm not one of those people who make fun of the handicapable! That's awful!"

Jackson wraps her arm around his neck and wraps his arm around her waist. She feels boneless, muscles rubbery, like she'll fall over at any moment, but boy, there's nothing wrong with her mouth. He has no idea what started her on this tangent.

"And then there was that other time where I was watching Jeopardy and I was like, 'Who's this guy? Where's Alex Trebek?' And my dad was like, 'Lisa, that is Alex Trebek. He just shaved his mustache.' I totally didn't recognize him! That's just wrong, ya know? I mean, he can't just shave his mustache... It's like Tom Selleck or Chuck Norris or...Jesus! They're just not themselves without their mustaches. I don't like it."

"Step up, Leese," Jackson mutters as they approached the front steps of the inn.

Lisa ignores him and keeps on talking.

"You know, when I was four, my dad shaved his mustache off and it freaked me out! I was like, 'Ahhhhh! You're not my dad!' Don't get me wrong, I'm not, like, into facial hair, or anything... It feels kinda gross to me, kissing a guy with a mustache. It feels like I'm kissing my dad, which is so not sexy... But I just don't get why, like, you would stray from your trade-mark, you know? Like, why would you do that? If you're, like, known for something... like, like, okay... Remember when Garth Brooks went all emo for like five minutes, and grew a soul-patch and had black hair and wore eyeliner and sang R&B? He looked like that one guy from Harry Potter, that teacher? What was the name - not the teacher - what was the name of the character he was playing? Chris something..."

"Chris Gaines."

"Yeah! You know, Bruce Willis did the same thing. Do you remember that? Back in, like, 1986 he thought he was a singer for a little while? He released an album as this 'Bruno' character..."

"Two albums."

"You're shitting me! I mean, what did he think, that people wouldn't notice? You pick up a tape at Sam Goody and you're, like, 'Hey, that looks like Bruce Willis!' And someone's, like, 'Shhhhhhh. It is, but don't tell.' That's ridiculous!"

"Totally," he agrees, reaching for the front door.

Lisa comes up for air as he holds the door open for her so they can quietly slip inside. She turns and looks at him in the dark.

"You have the prettiest eyes," she sighs.

He can't help but look smug. "You think?"

She nods. "And your hair…" He feels her fingers slip from around his shoulder to the back of his neck and up into his hair. "…it's really soft. In the back."

She stands there, twirling a lock of his hair between her fingers, blinking sleepily at him.

"Um…" He's about to suggest they go upstairs, but then she leans in and presses her nose to his neck, resting her head there.

"You smell good, too," she murmurs.

"Thanks?"

"I really miss that," Lisa sighs. He's not sure what she's talking about. He feels her knees go out and she starts to drop to the floor.

"Bye," she says.

"Whoa! Whoa, there! Where are you going?" he laughs.

"I think I'll lie down, now," Lisa whispers.

"I don't think this hardwood floor will be very comfortable, do you?"

"Too late, too late," she murmurs.

Jackson stands her up again, bends at the waist, presses his shoulder into her solar plexus and throws her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He starts up the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"Key?" he inquires, but she doesn't answer. He slips his hand into her purse, fishing around for the key to her room. He feels the big plastic key ring holder with her room number printed on it and slips the attached key into the lock.

Jackson tosses her purse on a chair and drops her, albeit gently, onto the bed. Lisa rolls over onto her side, her skirt bunching up on her hip. He smoothes the fabric down for the sake of her modesty.

"I really do miss it," she mutters into the pillow.

Christ, she's chatty when she's stoned. It's hilarious. "What do you miss?"

"That smell. Come here. Let me smell you."

Jackson snorts, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "What?"

"Let me smell you again," she says, eyes closed, an annoyed little frown gracing her brow.

Jackson shrugs and moves closer to her, sitting at the edge of the bed. He leans down, bracing his arms on either side of her. Lisa grabs his shirt and pulls him closer, her pointy little nose pressing against his clavicle - the exact spot where she stabbed him last year.

"Yes, that's the one," she says sadly. "It was my favorite and you ruined it for me."

Jackson frowns. "What did I ruin?"

"Acqua di Gio. By Armani. I loved that cologne. It was my favorite. You were wearing it on the Red Eye. After that, every time I caught a whiff of it in an elevator or standing in line, I'd almost have a panic attack."

"I see," he nods. For a while there he wasn't sure if she even knew who he was. He can't help but feel a surge of pride that he had really gotten to her. Like him, she hadn't escaped their meeting unscathed.

"It's a shame. My Intro to Philosophy professor wore it. Total dream-boat. I went out and bought a bottle to spray on my pillow - as I'm sure other of his students did - girls and some boys." She sighs again. "There goes that fantasy."

"My apologies."

"Liar-face. You're not sorry," she grumbles. "You get off on being a Debbie Downer. Smug bastard. Oh, well. One more time for old time's sake?" She grabs him by the shirt again and pulls him down on top of her. She snuffles around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest. He can feel the slight pressure of her nipples through her bra and her warm exhalations tickle his skin. Lisa's moaned "God, that's good" sets his body on edge. Her hands travel up into his hair, her nails lightly scrape against his scalp sending bursts of pleasurable sensations to his brain.

He can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Hell, he can't remember the last time someone touched him - doctors and prison guards notwithstanding. He's literally frozen in surprise and indecision.

A second later, one of her hands drifts down his shoulder to his bicep. She squeezes it slightly, as if testing him, and then continues down to his elbow where the sleeve of his flannel shirt is rolled up. Her fingers are light on the inside of his forearm, tracing the veins down to his hand. She picks it up and examines it in the light.

"You've got big hands," she murmurs. "My dad has big hands, too. So did Michael." He wants to ask: Who's Michael? But she presses his open palm to her cheek and he can't manage it. He suddenly finds himself on the other side of the room and has no idea how he got there, except that his heart is racing and he's breathing very fast.

"I..." He has no voice. He clears his throat and tries again. "I have to go."

"No, don' go, Jacks'n" she pleads. "Stay here with me."

He turns back to look at her and sees she can barely keep her eyes open. "It's an awf'ly big bed," she sighs.

The devil on his shoulder tells him to go for it. If he wants his revenge, he should go for it. He'd have the opportunity to exorcise all of these tangled feelings: lust, hatred, obsession, and passion. He'd satisfy his body's demands - because, let's be honest, it's been awhile - and he'd have something to hold over her because he knows full well she'd be throwing shoes and lamps at this head if she were in her right mind. Like Ecstasy, GHB induces a sense of euphoria, disinhibition, and enhanced sensuality.

It would be incredibly sexy and utterly impossible to decline if she were sober, but it's obvious to him that she's bombed out of her mind, so now it's just incredibly sexy and utterly impossible to accept. She could barely stand on her own a few minutes ago.

Surprisingly enough to Jackson, the better angel of his nature wins out.

"Fucking someone who's unconscious, or near-to, is a little too close to necrophilia for my tastes, thanks."

"So do something to keep me awake. I'm sure you could think of something creative," she murmurs.

"I could dismember you and dump you in the bayou," he threatens.

"That sounds like a lot of work." She rolls off the bed and starts crawling over to him on her hands and knees. "Why don't you show a girl a good time instead?" She laughs and it sounds positively evil.

"What are you doing?" His voice sounds oddly panicked to his own ears.

She sits down on her butt and giggles, unable to crawl any further. She crooks her finger, beckoning him. "C'mere, you."

He could cut glass with his hard-on. He moves toward her, grips her upper arms and lifts her to her feet. He thrusts his arm under her knees and picks her up. Lisa wraps her arms around his neck and smiles dreamily, like she's a newly wedded bride. Jackson deposits her on the bed and tries to step away, but her arms linger around his neck. He feels her eyelashes like feathers against his cheek, her warm breath on his neck. She's sniffing him again, damn it.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You're killing me, you know that?"

She laughs a naughty little school-girl laugh. "But you're no use to me dead," she reasons, quirking her eyebrow at him.

He manages to untangle her arms from around his neck and turns away to drag a blanket out of the wardrobe. When he pulls it out, all of the clothes she had stacked on top of it come with it and fall to the floor. It takes a few moments for him to right everything - he knows how fastidious she is about her clothes - and when he turns back to the bed, she's sawing logs, her breathing deep and even.

Jackson laughs softly to himself, relieved that she's finally out. He tucks the blanket around her curled form. He could stay and hope she wakes up in the middle of the night sober - but still horny - but now common sense is starting to wriggle its way back in. He brushes a lock of her hair off her forehead.

"You know, tomorrow you're not going to remember any of this," he mutters to her sleeping form.


	7. Chapter 7

He's already awake when she finally rises around noon. He spent his morning transferring funds and reading the Wall Street Journal. Occasionally, he'd glance up at his laptop where Lisa's bed fills the screen: Lisa tossing and turning, Lisa kicking off the covers, waking up around nine to throw up and then crawling back into her bed to sleep some more.

When she finally rolls out of bed, she sits for a moment taking in the room around her, as if she's not sure how she got there. Finally, she stands and begins stripping off her clothes from the previous night as she heads to the bathroom.

Jackson quickly closes his laptop, almost spilling his mug of coffee in the attempt.

Half an hour later, she's out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her torso and one twisted around her head like a turban. She picks out an outfit and gets dressed with quick, efficient movements, slipping her underwear on under her towel. He only gets a brief but tantalizing side glimpse of her breast before she turns her back to the camera and slips her bra on - a creamy peach and sea foam green lace number and very pretty - and buttons a pink ruffled blouse over it. Lisa carries her hairdryer into the bathroom and she's out of sight for about ten minutes before Jackson decides to get a head start on her.

He grabs his wallet and keys, tucks his fully charged laptop into its case, and heads downstairs. He knows it takes her at least a half hour to dry her hair and do her makeup. Hilton's at the front desk when he comes down the stairs.

"Hey there, Mr. Ryan. You goin' out for lunch?"

Jackson almost forgets to respond to his alias. "Uh, yeah, actually. Any recommendations?"

"Oh, sure. We got some fine dining for sure. You hankerin' for something in particular?"

Jackson shakes his head. "Not really."

"Uh, let's see, there's Chili Willie's if you're in the mood for pizza, Burger-Burger's got great po-boys. Darwell's is good, whatever you get. If you're looking for somethin' higher end, there's French Charley's. They got a nice little wine bar and some great fish dishes. Old Cuevas Bistro - they got this Oysters Achee that's to die for. And there's Jazzeppi's Ristorante – real upscale, steaks and whatnot. Great creole dishes."

"That all sounds good."

"Yeah, can't really go wrong when fillin' your face down here!" Hilton laughs. "I got a list I prepared here for guests. It's got the addresses, but if you need directions…"

"Actually I've got some errands to do first, so lunch will have to wait. I've got Google maps on my cell phone, so…"

Hilton laughs and shakes his head. "Those things are amazing. The whole world's at your fingertips."

Jackson smiles and folds of the salmon-pink colored paper that Hilton slid across the desk to him. "Pretty much. I'll call if I need help, though."

"All right, then. Take care."

Jackson waves goodbye and heads out the door. Truth be told, a big juicy medium rare steak sounds like heaven right now, but it's up to Lisa. He pops the lock on the Audi, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. He pulls into a parking space on the street and sets up the laptop on the front seat while he waits for her to emerge.

Twenty minutes later, she's jogging down the steps to her car. He follows her to the artsy-hipster downtown scene lined with boutiques, thrift stores, pawn shops, pizzerias, and pubs. She parks her car and dabs on a bit of lipstick in the rear view mirror. She throws her purse over her shoulder and gets out. She's wearing a cute pair of jeans with a printed tank and a tailored jacket over it. She's dressed a little trendier than usual, with her high-heeled boots and chunky jewelry. He's used to seeing her in ultra-feminine classics like skirts and cardigans and pearls. He likes the look on her, though. She looks more confident, self-assured.

He sits in the car and watches as she darts into one art boutique and then some trendy thrift shop. She's in there an hour and he starts to get bored playing online Sudoku. He takes a chance and follows her into the next shop, some independent music store peddling records and CDs. The store is stocked from floor to ceiling with merchandise. Industrial metal shelves line the long narrow brick walls, so he keeps out of sight easily enough. He watches Lisa wander downstairs to the basement where they keep the old vinyl records. He doesn't dare follow her down there, but he kinda wants to; maybe sneak up behind her, tap her on the shoulder and ask her if she prefers vinyl to digital and why.

It strikes him then, that he'll never have a normal conversation with her. At least never again, not without her being in a chemically altered state. He thinks back to that hour he spent with her in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, how easily she smiled at him and how easy he found it to smile back at her, how unconsciously he did it at first, no artifice necessary. He thinks back to that one Friday night at her neighborhood bar when it was packed with the after-work crowd and he heard her voice behind him, inquiring politely to the bartender if the Sea Breeze she'd been waiting fifteen minutes for was ready. He thinks about how the bartender shoved the glass into his hand and asked him to pass it to her. He thinks about how his lungs seemed to seize up as he desperately tried to school his expression into one of brisk disinterest, how he turned and tried to avoid eye contact with her as he passed her the drink. Their fingers had slid against each other just for a moment as she took the drink from his hand. Jackson had swung back around and ordered another shot to try to calm the pounding of his heart. He thinks that maybe he should have done something different then; that he should have smiled at her, should have spoken to her, should have picked someone else as the mark. Jackson adds another item to his long list of regrets.

At the top of the stairs he can see her below, thumbing through the plastic crates of used records. She goes from one to the next until she stops suddenly with a gasp. Mouth open in wonder, she pulls the record jacket free and inspects it. She slips the plate-sized black disc from its cover and examines first one side, then the other, in the light. Satisfied, she puts it back in the jacket and tucks it under her arm. She continues through the rest of the crate, apparently finding several LPs that strike her fancy. Jackson's curious about what exactly she's so excited about, but it's not like he can ask her, so he backs away from the head of the stairs and moves to the back of the store. Well, he might as well shop while he's here. There's a few CDs he's been looking for.

Within a quarter of an hour, he's found a couple albums: some Leonard Cohen to help mellow him out, a new copy of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks to replace the one he scratched. and a hard-to-find import of a Kings of Leon album he's been looking for. As he's heading to the cash register, at the last second he snags a copy of David Bowie's greatest hits - in deference to Lisa. He pays and heads back to his car. Twenty minutes later, Lisa emerges with a bag of records in one hand and a tan. heavy-looking plastic case in the other. He sits up and turns down the volume on Ground Control to Major Tom, watching as Lisa hefts the case into her trunk. He has no idea what that thing is that she's hauling around. He sighs and leans back, shaking his head. She slams down the trunk on the Camry and takes a moment to lean against her car. She pulls a folded up piece of paper from her pocket and examines it. It's salmon-colored and Jackson recognizes it as the same list of restaurants Hilton slipped him.

Finally they get to eat! Steak, he thinks, attempting to beam his thoughts into her brain. None of this leafy green bean sprout hummus healthy crap. Red meat. Make it so, Leese.

He follows her across the bay into Pass Christian, to a great hulking building on stilts. The building is painted pastel blue and its many windows overlook the harbor and the local yacht club. French Charley's, the cheerful sign welcomes diners. To Jackson's dismay, he realizes they've shown up during the afternoon lull: too late for lunch, too early for dinner. There's probably ten cars in the parking lot and half of them likely belong to the staff. There's no way he can slip in unnoticed. He bangs his fist on the steering wheel in frustration and curses.

Five minutes later, a waitress is seating Lisa at an outdoor table situated under a giant yellow umbrella. There's a young couple out there with her, also enjoying the sunshine and crisp salty breeze from the ocean. Jackson reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the binoculars. He leans forward, slumping over the steering wheel, resting his arms. He watches her for about twenty minutes, taking in every passing emotion on her face as though he were sitting right across from her: the peaceful expression as she watches the boats come and go from the marina, the slight smile as she closes her eyes and breathes the sea-air in deeply, the slightly sad and wistful expression as she glances at the couple a few tables over who laugh and drink their wine, oblivious.

She's lonely. The thought occurs to him out of nowhere and he feels a zing of excitement mingled with a dull ache of sympathy in his own chest. How alike they are; how isolated, how alone. Jackson is that way by choice - or so he tells himself - but Lisa... Lisa's life was blown off course by a violent wind, and now she's stuck in these metaphorical doldrums: unable to go forward, unable to go backward.

The waitress delivers Lisa's lunch - some kind of shrimp quesadilla - and sets down a bottle of a very nice Italian Pinot Grigio, from the San Angelo winery. She pours Lisa a glass and retreats back into the restaurant. Lisa eats enthusiastically at her quesadilla and sips her wine. Jackson's stomach rumbles angrily and clenches, but he sticks it out a bit longer. Finished with her meal, Lisa pours herself another glass of wine and sneaks another glance at the couple as the man leans over and tenderly kisses the temple of the woman. Lisa looks away quickly, her cheeks flaring in embarrassment at witnessing the small, intimate moment. The couple gets up and leaves and Lisa is left alone on the deck.

She sits with her chin propped up on her hand, absentmindedly dipping her middle finger in her wineglass and running it around the edge. Jackson can't be sure, but he thinks that her eyes seem a bit red and watery. A second later, Lisa's brushing at her cheeks, confirming just how much the young couple affected her. She wipes a tear from her face and tosses back the rest of her glass of Pinot Grigio.

Jackson sighs. He can't watch any more, it's too depressing - plus, he's starving. He throws the binoculars into the passenger seat and pulls out of the parking lot, tires spinning in the gravel before finding traction and hightailing it out of there. He finds a nice little bistro on the way back to the bed and breakfast. He orders a black angus burger with aged cheddar, apple wood smoked bacon, and grilled red onion. On a lark, he orders sweet potato fries and is pleased to find that they're absolutely delicious.

Despite his late start, he beats her back to The Liberty. Jackson is reclining in bed, watching the History Channel when he hears her familiar step coming up the stairs. He hears Hilton's voice and Jackson reaches over on the bed next to him and opens the laptop. It takes a moment for the feed to load, but he's granted access to her room once again in time to see Hilton heft that heavy plastic case from Lisa's trunk onto the bed. Lisa offers him a tip, which he refuses, and instead gives her an affection squeeze on her arm. Lisa tries to smile, brave little soldier that she is, but Jackson can tell she's relieved to be alone again when Hilton shuts the door behind him.

Lisa must have purchased another bottle of wine from the restaurant because she pulls out an unopened bottle from her oversized purse. She places it on the table next to the bed while she pulls off her boots and removes her jewelry. She shucks the jacket and pulls off her jeans, much to Jackson's annoyance. She grabs the bottle opener from the drawer and pops the cork on the second bottle of Pinot. She takes a swig and places it back on the table.

Lisa folds her shapely bare legs up in front of her, sitting Indian-style on the bed. She pulls the plastic case toward her and pops the big metal buckle locks on it. The lid opens and Jackson snorts when he sees what it is.

Lisa has purchased one of those ancient portable record players from the sixties. It's an eccentric and impractical buy, but he has to give her props for being an audio purist. She grabs the plastic bag holding her purchases off the floor and turns the bag over, letting the records slip out onto the bed. She's got about ten or more there. She spreads them out with an almost child-like enthusiasm, surveying her purchases like a child sorts through their candy hoard after a night of Trick-or-Treating.

She selects an old Charles Aznavour LP, For Me…Formidable, places it on the turntable, and carefully lowers the needle onto the rotating vinyl. A jaunty, jazzy tune in the style of the early sixties blares from the speaker and Lisa grabs the bottle of wine from the bedside table and gulps about a quarter of it down, her toes wiggling and tapping to the music.

Cradling the Pinot Grigio between her breasts, she leans back against the headboard and sings along, stumbling a little over the French lyrics.

You are the one for me, for me, for me, formidable

You are my love, very, very, very veritable

Et je voudrais pouvoir un jour enfin te le dire

Te l' ecrire

Dans la langue de Shakespeare

My daisy, daisy, daisy desirable

Je suis malheureux 

d' avoir si peu de mots

A t'offrir en cadeaux

Darling, I 

love you, love you, 

darling, I want you

Et puis c' est a peu pres tout

You are the one for me, for me, for me, formidable…

She gets tired of singing in French, or maybe she just wants something less upbeat, so she switches Charles Aznavour out for Etta James and Jackson smiles to himself. He loves Etta James. Aretha Franklin may be dubbed the Queen of Soul, but he prefers Miss Peaches any day.

Jackson mutes the TV and turns up the sound on his laptop so he can hear the song better. He decides to raid the minibar, though he's sure it'll cost a fortune. This kind of music calls for a drink: whiskey, single malt, neat - preferably a forty-year-old Highland Park. He has to make due with a mini-bottle of Wild Turkey, instead.

I've been loving you 

too long 

To stop now 

You were tired 

And you want to be free 

My love is growing stronger 

As you become a habit to me 

I've been loving you 

Way too long 

I don't wanna stop now 

With you, my life 

Has been so wonderful 

I can't, I can't stop now 

You were tired 

and your love is growing cold 

My love is growing stronger 

As our affair, our affair grows old 

I've been loving you

A little too long 

I don't wanna stop now

Lisa polishes off the bottle in no time at all and then starts on the mini-bar. She switches from record to record – Nat King Cole, The Platters, Billie Holliday, Jo Stafford, The Righteous Brothers, and then, bizarrely enough, Madonna, The Cure, Cyndi Lauper, and Tears for Fears.

Welcome to your life.

There's no turning back.

Jackson should be enjoying Lisa's emotional meltdown. Clearly she's in crisis. Who runs away from home at twenty-seven?

She's running away from you, his conscience (or whatever passes for a conscience in him) taunts.

Well, she's not doing a very good job, now is she? Why isn't she safe at home with dear old dad and a couple of big, strong FBI agents to protect her? It's almost like she's giving an open invitation - to him, to anyone from the company who might want her dead. If that's the case, she's more screwed up than he thought. He should take some satisfaction in that, for surely he must have played no small part in her nervous breakdown, but he can't quite muster any enjoyment from her current situation.

Jackson takes a moment to consider this. No, Lisa Reisert doesn't give up. She's like phoenix. She takes her pain and suffering and uses it to fuel her righteous anger. Surely she doesn't have a death wish. He thinks back to their battle in her father's house. She was utterly ferocious, a lioness coming at him with teeth bared, claws extended and hair flying. She'd snarled and snapped at him, and even when he'd finally immobilized her, his hands crushing around the delicate bones of her wrists, had he gotten too close, he knows without a doubt she would have bitten him.

His Lisa's a fighter, a survivor. She's not suicidal or self-destructive. Or maybe… Let's look at this from a different angle. Say he does have a standing invitation. Perhaps that's been her intention all along, to draw him out, away from Miami, away from the people she loves. Maybe she's playing the martyr. Maybe she believes if they meet again in battle that she'll win – again. It occurs to him then that it's possible he's not flying under her radar like he thought he was. She didn't seem a bit surprised to see him when he showed up last night - of course, she was stoned out of her mind like a yippy at a Phish concert - but if she were playing the role of bait, he's certain he would notice any police or agency presence, no matter how discreet. He's been trained for that. He can spot a lawman like he's picking out his grandma in a lineup.

So this must be a scenario of Lisa's own devising. The thought that she could be expecting him, waiting for him… It's maddening. He stares hard at his door, seriously considering going over there, knocking on her door, and forcing his way inside; but then he looks back at the laptop screen. There she is, in all her glory: half-drunk and crying, cell phone in hand, agonizing over calling… who? Daddy? Whoever it is, she decides against it. She throws her cell phone on the floor, wipes her eyes and jumps off the bed to dance around her room half-dressed to some pop song by Cyndi Lauper.

Oh, yes. She's definitely plotting something. Jackson scoffs. He turns down the volume on his laptop – though he doesn't close it - and turns up the volume on his television to drown out her music. He calls downstairs to Hilton for a turkey sandwich – possibly the best turkey club he's ever eaten - then settles back into the pillows for some channel surfing.

*****

He wakes up to the sound of water rushing through pipes. The forceful dull hiss inside the wall across the room makes him sit up in bed. He tries to sooth the crick in his neck by rolling his head on his shoulders and squeezing the back of his neck, but it only helps a little.

Lisa still has her music on. He can hear it coming through the wall, but can't make it out. He turns the volume up on his laptop and now the music's streaming into his room. Something from a classic American songbook: smooth piano, bittersweet and romantic.

Lisa's running a bath in the massive Jacuzzi tub. She's in the ivory silk robe she purchased on her shopping excursion in Destin and she's pouring a capful of the complementary high-end bubble bath the inn provides into the steaming water. As she leans over the tub, Jackson catches a tantalizing glimpse of her leg and upper thigh where the robe parts. He maneuvers the mouse so that the camera zooms in and refocuses. He moves up to her face and though she's stunning, there's an underlying current of sadness running through her. The way she holds her mouth, the set of her shoulders. He knows her tells so well. She probably doesn't even know she has them.

Lisa stands and begins tugging at the knot at her waist. The thin, slippery material glides off her shoulders and down her arms and pools on the floor at her feet. It leaves her completely bare. Granted, it's a view from behind, but Jackson's not complaining. She's heart-stoppingly beautiful: from the graceful line of her neck, down the curve of her spine, to her exquisite heart-shaped derriere. She lifts one delicately arched foot and tests the water temperature before stepping into the foamy, frothy confection of her bathwater and reclining against the back of the tub.

Lisa's eyes slip closed and she hums along to the tune.

Goodbye

No use leading with our chins

This is where our story ends

Never lovers, ever friends

Goodbye

Let our hearts call it a day

But before you walk away

I sincerely want to say...

Jackson moves into his own bathroom, lured there by her presence just on the other side of their adjoining wall. He stares hard at the shining tile, attempting to glare it into non-existence. He steps into the tub, his shoes leaving a small dirt smudge on the bottom of the nice, clean Jacuzzi. His fingertips reach out to touch the wall, hesitating only for a moment before resting his palm against the ceramic.

I wish you bluebirds in the spring

To give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss, but more than this

I wish you love

He presses his ear to the wall, listening. For what, he doesn't know... but it's almost like putting his ear against a sea shell. He can hear the imaginary ocean, and with it, the ephemeral sound of her voice. Jackson crouches down in the tub, presses his forehead to the solid, cool material, his palms open and flat against the wall as if he can summon her to come through the wall to him, or as if he could push right through it to find her waiting for him on the other side.

And in July, a lemonade

To cool you in some leafy glade

I wish you health, but more than wealth

I wish you love

His hands run over the tiles placed along the length of the tub. His fingers dip into the grout grooves with a delicacy he didn't know he was capable of. He imagines the smoothness of her legs against his fingertips, slipping his hands into the water, the slickness of her skin anointed with the expensive spa oils. He imagines her hazel eyes gazing calmly back at him as she opens her legs in invitation. Jackson, she whispers. Jackson.

My breaking heart and I agree

That you and I could never be

So with my best, my very best

I set you free

I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to keep you warm

But most of all, when snowflakes fall

I wish you love

He sinks down into the tub, stretching out his legs and leaning his head back. It's the closest, he knows, that he'll ever get to lying next to her. Jackson closes his eyes, listens to the muffled music coming through the wall. He thinks it means something that he can picture her face with such clarity: the perfect geometric arch of her eyebrows, the placement of her beauty marks - constellation-like on her skin, the exact shade of green in her irises.

He's fast asleep within a few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's short and a little uneventful, but hopefully, the next one will make up for it. Can I just say – I usually hate "songfic." I really do. It's rarely done well. But I'm trying create a certain mood here. I think most of these songs are on my playlist which can accessed from my profile. You can listen to all of the songs for free. It is awesome. Go forth and enjoy. Also please review. That would be awesome, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: OK, so this is rather short - and not all of what I had decided to post for this chapter. But it's done (as done as it's gonna be, at least), and the rest is not. I figured I'd caused enough suffering by making you kind folks wait so bloody long for an update. So here it is.  
> *ahem* Now. A word of warning. This chapter is NWA (Not Work Appropriate). Like, at ALL. Also, any minors need to scoot. Scram. Be off with you, younglings. I do not wish to contribute to the depravation of minors.

Fourteen months ago

He extends his hand. "Oh, the name's Jackson, by the way."

She shakes it, and the first thing that goes through his mind is mild surprise that her delicate hand is capable of such a firm grip. 

"Lisa," she nods and smiles, completely oblivious.

"Pleased to meet you." He manages to force the words out through his mouth, though he's not sure how because his mind is still reeling from the feel of her palm against his own. He abruptly lets go and is relieved he can focus again because she's asking him a question.

"No. No, I haven't gone by Jack since I was ten years old. Last name's Rippner..."

She thinks about it, tries his name out on her lips. "Jack Rippner... Jack... the... Oh!" she exclaims, making the connection.

"There ya go," he chuckles, his slightly embarrassed smile completely unfeigned.

"That wasn't very nice of your parents."

"No," he agrees. "No, that's what I told them. Before I killed them."

She laughs nervously at his unexpected dark humor, but then he smiles and laughs with her and she's comfortable again, thinks he's teasing, not revealing some simmering hatred for the couple who conceived him.

"Well, if it's any comfort, my middle name is Henrietta."

He's pleasantly surprised that she would offer up her own embarrassment to make him feel a little better.

"But that's my grandma's name, though," she continues, and her eyes get this sad, far away look. "Was," she corrects herself.

"Well, here's to Henrietta," he raises his glass,"whose spirit is very much alive."

She smiles softly at him, perhaps touched at his small gesture, and raises her own glass to clink it against his.

He takes a sip, hoping the scotch will help calm the bats fluttering in his belly, while Lisa gulps down her Baybreeze, maybe hoping to accomplish the same thing. She sets her half-empty glass back down on the bar and dabs at the moisture on her lips.

"You know," he says, "when I saw our flight had been delayed, I was afraid I was in for a long night. And then Mr. Plaid-Jacket over there had his little temper-tantrum and it seemed all but certain. But then I meet a beautiful woman and get to talk to her for an hour, so all in all, not too bad an evening. Funny how things turn out, huh?"

Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh, um... Yeah." She looks down at the table, clearly embarrassed at his compliment. He finds her modesty utterly charming.

"Do you mind me saying that?"

Her head snaps up, perhaps concerned that she's offended him. "Oh, no! No, it's fine. I just... um... I don't handle compliments very well." She gives a little nervous laugh.

Jackson nods, musing over their shared awkward silence.

"You know I went to school with a kid named Matthew Bateman," she says offhandedly.

"Oh?" he asks, not sure where she's going with this.

She nods. "Matt...Bateman." She's trying to keep a straight face, but there's definitely some mischief hiding in the quirk of her lips.

He thinks about it for a second and then a snicker escapes and he erupts into helpless, genuine laughter. Well, what do you know? Miss Prim-and-Proper has a wicked sense of humor.

"Yeah!" Lisa snickers. "You can imagine all the possibilities teenage boys could come up with for a moniker like that."

"Oh, that's rough," he agrees.

"Mm hm. See, there's always someone who has it worse than you," she chides. 

"That does, strangely enough, make me feel better. Next time I start feeling sorry for myself, I will try to remember: at least I wasn't saddled with a name that rhymes with 'masturbation.'"

Lisa dissolves into a fit of giggles, her full lips stretching in a broad, open smile, her perfect teeth glinting, her eyes clenched shut. He can't help but grin back, and earnestly, too, as he feels a tight coil loosen in his chest and he begins to relax. As her peals of laughter die down, she sighs contentedly, wipes her eyes, and takes another sip of her drink.

"But he was a sweet guy."

"I'm sure he was."

"Kids can be pretty cruel, though."

He chuckles at that; how well he knows that truth. "Absolutely. But I'm sure you never had to deal with any of that, am I right?"

Lisa shrugs. "Everyone gets picked on."

Jackson smirks. "What, the one time you had a zit?" It's supposed to be a compliment, but he comes off sounding a little condescending, which was completely unintentional.

She frowned and purses her lips. "No!"

"Then what?"

She sighs, exasperated. "I wore glasses and had braces until I was fourteen! You do the math."

"Yeaaaah, but then freshman year came and you got contacts and the braces came off, and suddenly senior guys are asking you out..."

Lisa smiles and rolls her eyes. "I was a band geek freshman year."

"And after that?"

She cringes, embarrassed. "There may have been some... leading of cheers."

Jackson grins knowingly. "Yeah, I thought so."

"But then," she continues, "they started a girl's field hockey team my junior year..."

"...And so you hung up your pleated skirt?"

She laughs. "Eventually. I wanted to concentrate on sports. Got a scholarship to play field hockey at UNC."

"Ah, so you were a Tar Heel, huh?" He knew that already, of course.

Her face flushes happily and Lisa thrusts her fist in the air. "Proud to wear that Carolina blue," she grins.

"You remember the fight-song?"

She snorts. "Do I remember the fight song? Of course!"

"How's it go?"

"You want me to sing it?"

"Sure."

"No way!"

"Come on. Just a little bit."

Lisa laughs. She takes in the challenge on his face, makes a little tsk-sound with her tongue, but finally relents with a sigh.

She clears her throat and begins to sing softly:

"I'm a Tar Heel born  
I'm a Tar Heel bred  
And when I die  
I'm a Tar Heel dead  
So it's rah rah, Car'lina-lina  
Rah rah, Car'lina-lina  
Rah rah, Car'lina-lina  
Rah! Rah! Rah!

And so on and so forth," she mumbles with a wave of her hand and a sheepish grin on her face.

Jackson leans back in his chair and takes her in. 

"Wow," he says, examining her, as if he's holding back a secret.

She squints back at him, suspicious. "After all that, you better not say you went to Duke or I'm coming over this bar at you." 

He chuckles at her school spirit and holds up his hands in supplication. "No throw-down necessary. I feel the same about Penn. I hate those Quakers," he growls. "And Rutgers! Always trying to steal our fucking cannon!" he laughs and she politely joins in.

"So you went to..."

"Princeton is my Alma-mater." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she's impressed. Her non-committal smile hints that she is, but she's trying not to show it.

"And what did you study at Princeton?" she inquires.

"Double major in Political Sciences and Psychology. Class of 1997. You?"

"Majored in Education, minored in English."

"Aaaand now you work for a hotel?"

"Yeah," she sighs. "It was hard to find a job when I graduated, so I moved back home. Couldn't find a job in Miami, either, and I certainly did not want to live at home forever, so..."

"Yeah, I didn't have much use for my major, either," he admits.

"Actually, Education majors are required to take child development courses and I've found that to be incredibly useful."  
"How so?"

"In my experience, cranky adults often revert to behaving like over-grown children. I've found it's best to handle them as such. The trick is not to come off as patronizing."

"Huh. I'll have to remember that. Do you miss North Carolina at all?"

"A bit. It's a beautiful state and people were really warm and friendly. I had a great four years there. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I had stayed." She looks thoughtfully across the bar, her mind drifting momentarily. He wonders what sort of regrets she could possibly have at her age.

Lisa blinks, snapping out of it, and turns her attention back to him.

"I'm sorry," she laughs, embarrassed. "I've been going on and on about myself..."

"No, no. Not at all," he smiles warmly.

"You haven't said much about yourself. Are you married?"

Jackson lets out a surprised chuckle. He certainly wasn't expecting that. "Uhhh..." He flashes his left hand at her. His ring finger is bare, of course. "Why do you ask?"

"Not everyone wears a ring. And I've found that men who never talk about their home life are invariably married."

He frowns, appearing to mull this over; but really he's dragging his non-answer out to tease her.

"So... you're married?"

Does he detect a note of hopefulness in her voice?

He smiles. "No, I'm not."

She nods. "But you... you have a girlfriend?" she asks, like it's a forgone conclusion.

"No." He smiles, trying not to smirk.

"Well, I'm fairly sure you're not gay..."

He grins and laughs. "No."

"Oh." She bites her lip, trying not to smile like she's pleased to hear that bit of information. He can tell that she is, of course. She can't even look at him. It's completely adorable.

"So tell me, Jack, why is a guy like you single?" she asks suddenly.

He can feel his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He laughs, trying to cover it with a cough. "Um..."

She's looking up at him, all big eyes and sweet, infinitely kissable mouth and suddenly he has to fight the urge to take her hand and pull her into the nearest utility closet. Suddenly he's thinking maybe she's not as frigid as he thought she was. She must know what she's doing to him.

But then she blushes and looks mortified, her eyes looking down at the floor, at her half-empty glass, at the rows of bottles behind the bar, anywhere but at him.

"Jesus," she laughs halfheartedly. "I sound like my mother. I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry... and you obviously don't want to..." She waves her hand. "We'll just leave it a mystery."

"Thank you," he says, relieved, trying to ignore that there's slight disappointment lurking under the relief.

Lisa looks so ashamed, her teeth gnawing away at her bottom lip, her knee bouncing nervously.

He feels bad that he embarrassed her with his awkward response. Before he can even stop himself, he blurts: "I'm sometimes... uncomfortable around people."

Her knee stops bouncing and she looks at him, her wide eyes searching his face. 

"I get busy with work," he explains, "flying around...not much of a home base...no real friends. I don't seem to have developed..." He's not sure why he's telling her this or why he can't stop talking.

"Yes?" He has her complete and undivided attention, now. It's kind of overwhelming.

"I have a job that takes up most of my time, but sometimes I think... that I haven't left room for, uh... anything else," he frowns.

Lisa's mouth parts and she exhales a soft, "Oh." She offers a soft smile, nods. "Well, I'm sorry to say I know what you mean."

Her hand moves to cover his, a sweet, sympathetic gesture on her part, and he practically lurches off the bar stool before their skin makes contact.

"Where are you going?" she asks, startled.

"Uh... to the bathroom," he stammers, tugging self-consciously on his jacket.

Lisa's face turns from surprise to worried. "Oh... Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"No, no! It's fine, it's fine!" he waves his hands a little too frantically, completely demolishing his normally cool demeanor. "I just have to... Uh, I'll be right back."

He turns and tries to walk at a normal speed in the direction of the men's room, hoping that it doesn't appear as if he's fleeing.

In the privacy of the bathroom, under the fluorescent lights, Jackson throws cold water on his face. He slaps his palms against his cheeks, praying the sting of pain will snap him out of this... this... whatever this is.

Get it together, man. Get it together, he tells himself.

When he's finally collected himself enough that he trusts he won't go out there and make an ass of himself any more than he already has, he returns to the restaurant. Lisa's worried expression eases a little as he makes his way back to her.

"Sorry," he says, breezily. "I've had, like, three of these," he nods to his empty tumbler of scotch.

"Oh," Lisa replies, a little relieved.

Jackson clears his throat and sits back down. The air between them has altered. The easy conversation, the light flirtation and attraction has dissipated, much to his relief. Still, he feels a strange loss. Part of him wants it back, wants her looking at him like she was ten minutes ago, which makes him both nostalgic and angry. Angry at himself for feeling like this and angry at her for making him feel... Unprofessional. Out of control.

Lisa opens her mouth to say something, but she's interrupted when a woman's voice comes over the loud speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're cleared for the boarding of flight 1019, service to Miami, Florida."

A smattering of applause drifts from the gate seating-area and soon restaurant patrons around them are applauding as well. It's a jarring interruption, but Lisa, ever-polite, claps, too.

"Well, I guess that's us," she shrugs. Is that disappointment in her voice?

"Wonders never cease." He's going for cheerful, but somehow it comes out as just plain irritated. He tries to push aside the disappointment he's feeling.

"Yeah," she murmurs.

He sighs and reaches for his wallet. "Uh, let me get this."

"Oh, no. No, please," Lisa objects. She's the type of girl who can buy her own drinks - and always does because she doesn't care for strings attached - but he can tell it's a little halfhearted. 

"I got it. I got it," he nods and smiles, cool and confident again. He slides a twenty and a ten across the bar and tells the guy to keep the change. 

Lisa smiles. "Thanks," she says. She's fiercely independent, but she doesn't mind him buying her a drink.

"Welcome," he replies. Maybe she's hoping to use it as an excuse to buy him one when they land in Miami?

Yeah, that's not gonna happen.

"Well, so..." he begins. Lisa smiles. He can tell she wants to keep talking to him as much as he wants to keep talking to her. But then their goodbye is intruded upon by an obnoxious beeping which he, unfortunately, recognizes.

Jackson rolls his eyes and sighs. "Can you hang on? I'm sorry," he mutters.

"Mmhm," Lisa nods and looks away, awkwardly trying to give him some privacy.

"Hello?"

"Jackson, it's Richard. We just received confirmation that your flight is a go." 

"Yeah," he replies.

"Has your asset arrived?" Richard always knows how to phrase things in such a bureaucratic way. 'Asset.' Yeah. More like 'mark.'

"Can you just hold on?"

He doesn't wait for Richard's response, just presses his palm to the mouthpiece of his cell phone to give them some privacy. He doesn't want to answer any questions like: Who were you talking to? Why did you make contact with your asset before the designated time? Et cetera...

He turns back to Lisa. "Umm... I gotta take this. I'm sorry."

Her disappointment is quickly masked with a reassuring smile. "That's okay.

"It was so nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," she nods.

"You have a good flight."

"You too."

"Bye-bye."

"Bye," she says softly, as he brushes past her.

'I'm sorry,' he'd said. And damn it, he'd kind of meant it.

xxxxxxxx

 

Present Day

 

Lisa's long gone by the time he wakes up. A stiff neck and aching muscles causes him to groan as he stretches. He takes a look around the bathroom. Feeling rather foolish, he clambers out of the bathtub and stumbles into the bedroom. His laptop lays open on the bed. He flops down, swirls his finger over the mouse pad, and the screen blinks to life. He checks his camera angles and realizes that her things are gone and it's nearly noon.

There's a moment of blinding anger, as he starts scrambling around, gathering his things, anger at her, anger at himself, before he stops and reminds himself that he placed a tracker on her car. He takes a breath and sinks down on the bed. He pulls up the tracking system program on his laptop and in less than three clicks, he has her again, a blinking black dot traveling across a grid.

She's continuing west, from the look of it, on Highway 90. He follows the road further out to see what lies in that direction and sees that she's about twenty minutes outside of New Orleans and two hours ahead of him.  
He never thought Lisa was a Big Easy type of girl, but maybe he was wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. He just hopes she's planning on staying put.

Jackson takes his time packing up his things, carefully stowing the surveillance equipment in the trunk of the Audi before heading back in and taking a shower. He stands under the hot spray, letting it beat down on his sore neck and shoulders. He's exhausted from last night. Though he slept like the dead in the bathtub, it was not a restful sleep and it's wreaking havoc on him now.

Now, in the cold light of day, he's rather dismayed at his actions last night.

This is getting out of hand. You have to finish this.

Jackson sighs, grabs the bar of soap and lathers up. 

But how? Pull her into some back alley? A bullet in the head or a knife in the heart seems like overkill, but if she's headed to New Orleans, it's ideal. A mugging gone wrong. Some hapless tourist wanders into a bad neighborhood and...  
He tries to picture it: she'll be walking along tonight, back to her hotel or to her car. A bullet to the back of the head would drop her quickly and quietly. No muss, no fuss. He's not a great shot, but he's confident he won't maim her. The idea of Lisa as a vegetable strikes him as sad and rather pathetic. 

Jackson soaps his hands and spreads the white foam up his arms, across his chest and down his abs.

Or maybe... the soft squish and scrape of steel meeting flesh and bone, the look of surprise on her face as he eases her gently to the pavement, her blood flowing warm and wet over his fingers.

No, gloves. Of course, he'll have to wear gloves.

His soapy hand wanders down his abdomen, following the sparse line of hair down to his groin. Absentmindedly, he soaps up his pelvis and moves on to his member and further down, cleansing and slicking his flesh with a layer of bubbles, which almost tickles as it drips down his skin. He scrapes his blunt nails across his belly and his dick twitches pleasantly.

The idea of getting up close and personal when he does her should put a smile on his face. Revenge usually gets his blood pumping, gets him hard.

He thinks of Lisa, pictures her in that deep sapphire blue blouse she wore at the airport, how it made her pale skin gleam. He remembers the weight of her body in his arms the other night. 

Jackson reaches down and strokes himself casually, the foamy lather from the moisturizing bar acting well enough as a lubricant. He pictures her on her knees in some back alley, tears streaking her mascara, turning her elfin nose red as she begs for her life. But it's not the thought of Lisa begging for her life that's caused his dick to stiffen and grow, it's the thought of her on her knees for a very different reason.

Jackson wraps his hand around his flushed member and strokes smoothly up and down, aided by the slippery soap. His eyes flutter shut as he recalls the image of Lisa beckoning him to her with a crook of her finger, a wicked smirk slanting her lips seductively, or how naughty that giggle of hers sounded in the darkness of her room; the glimpse of the smooth roundness of her thighs before he tugged her skirt down in that momentary pique of chivalry.

He looks down to see his cock hard is hard as a rock already and he hasn't even gotten to the best part.

Okay, he thinks. Enough of that. Don't even go there. That's completely against the rules. His thoughts turn to Nicki; his colleague and sometimes fuck-buddy - though he always calls her Nicole. 'Nicki Barrie' sounds too much like a porn-star's name and it certainly doesn't suit her professional tenacity. The woman is a fucking pit bull. But then again, she isa real tiger in the sack.

Jackson pictures her blonde head bobbing over him, buried deep in her throat as she moans theatrically around him. He thinks about the time she dragged him into a maintenance closet and fucked him five minutes before a meeting with a client, and how to pay her back, he'd fingered her under the table at a dinner meeting with their boss, making her squirm and sweat in her seat.

He recalls the way her tits bounce when she rides him and his hand moves a little quicker on his dick.

But soon, it's not a pair of D's he's thinking of, it's two perky B-cups. And then it's not a bottle blonde head bobbing in front of his hips, it auburn curls.

He pulls back his hips and her mouth slides off him. She's not on her knees in an alley begging for her life, now. She's on her knees in the shower, her skin flecked with drops of water, her mane of auburn hair twisted up in one of those clippy-things. Her little pink tongue darts out to lick those plush lips. He drags the clip from her hair and tilts her face up to look at him. She's all big hazel eyes and a pretty smile. His hands sink into those silky curls as he gently brings her face back to his groin. She nuzzles him sweetly before taking him in her mouth again, soft little moans and sighs issuing from her throat.

"Fuuuck," he groans. "Leese..."

Fuck. Stop it. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head, trying to shake the image of her from it. 

Right. Back to Nicole.

He thinks back to the time he watched her put a bullet in a target, then pulled up her skirt and pretty much ordered him to fuck her on the floor of a grimy storage unit. He'd ruined one of his favorite Hugo Boss suits placating her, not that he'd complained. He has quite a fine mental roster of jerk-off material, thanks to that woman and several others: his college girlfriend, various escorts and one night stands whose names he's long since forgotten - if he ever knew them to begin with. But the minute he starts getting into the personal porno playing in his head, Lisa Reisert again makes her fucking presence known.

He stops his frantic tugging. His left hand slaps against the tile of the shower in aggravation. He takes a deep breath. Okay, let's try this again.

Nicole.

Nicole Nicole Nicole.

He chants her name in his head like it will summon her. But it doesn't. 

Instead, his brain drags up the tiny bathroom on the red eye flight, the feel of Lisa's scar against the pad of his thumb, the baby-soft skin at the top of her breast, how her nipples had viably hardened at his touch.

From fear. Not from arousal, he reminds himself.

No matter. How easy it would have been to slip his hand in a little further; under the thin material of her shirt, under the fabric of her bra, to feel the heat of her skin and the pebbled nub of her nipple against his palm.

"Fuck," Jackson mutters, his hand slipping and sliding up and down his turgid flesh.

Except this time, when he catches her in the lie, he doesn't wrap his hands around her throat. Instead, he ducks his head and his tongue traces the pink flesh of her scar, suckling at it.

"Tell me who did it," he whispers against the curve of her neck, inhaling her perfume. "I'll put him through a fucking wood chipper."

"I don't know." She lets out a sound like a sob and shakes her head. "I don't know..."

His hands wrap around her waist and he sets her up on the tiny sink, pushing his hips between her knees.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it, Leese? A long time since anyone's touched you..."

With his left hand, he cups her face so she can't look away, fingers pressing into her jaw. His right hand moves up her knee smoothly, shoving her skirt up with it. She's so terrified, she's frozen. Doesn't even fight him.

He brings his face close to hers; so close that when he speaks, his lips brush against hers.

"You miss it, don't you?" he croons. "The feel of someone else's hands on you? Caressing your skin, touching all the right places."

His fingers graze the sodden material of her underwear. He sucks in a breath of surprise, then chuckles to himself. "Well, I guess there's something to be said for abstinence, huh? I mean, at this point, it's almost like being a virgin again. And virgins, well..."

He slowly swipes his tongue over the pulse that flutters in her throat, before returning his lips to her ear.

"...They get wet soooo easily."

Through her underwear, he flicks his thumbnail against her clit. Lisa gasps and jerks; and when he slides her panties down her legs - in this fantasy she's not wearing pantyhose - she whimpers, shuddering under his hands. 

Jackson leans back and pulls her skirt up around her waist, exposing her to him. She's completely shaved and smooth as a peach. He's got no idea if that's an accurate estimation of Lisa's landscaping, but really, at this point he doesn't give a shit.

He brushes the back of his index finger against her plump nether-lips, drawing a moan from her. 

"I bet I could make you purr like a kitten," he murmurs and nibbles on her ear lobe. "Why don't we find out, hmm?" 

Lisa's thighs are wet and sticky with her arousal and he gets down on one knee to lick her clean before unzipping his fly and taking out his cock. He eases his fingers into her, rubbing her clit, pumping and pumping, coaxing little whimpers from the back of her throat. He gathers as much of her lubricant as he can before withdrawing his fingers and slicking his cock with her juices.

Jackson slows the strokes on his shaft to a more leisurely speed. If he's gonna go here, just this once, he wants it to last.

She's eying his dick like she's a little scared, her teeth pressed tightly into her bottom lip.

"Touch it," he commands.

Her eyes dart up to his, surprised, then back down to his erection.

"Go on," he whispers. "Feel how hard I am for you."

Her delicate fingertips hesitate, then skitter down the length of him, and then are gone. He takes himself in hand again and shifts his hips forward. The head of his cock nuzzles against the sensitive skin of her nether-lips, then slips between. He presses her thighs wide open, teases her hard little clit with his glans. It makes her gasp and clutch at his shirt.

"Please," she whispers.

Please stop? Please don't stop? Doesn't matter. He doesn't care. His hips slam forward.

And then he's inside her.

You can't watch a woman in her home for eight weeks and not see something. He knows what Lisa sounds like when she gets herself off: soft gasps and a mousy little squeak. It's kinda cute and sexy and hearing it made his dick twitch pleasantly in his trousers. But it's not like that in his head. She whimpers his name and wails like a banshee for him. It only takes another minute of furious tugging on his dick before his balls tighten and he comes hard, spurting his seed against the tiled wall of the shower.

"Fuuuck," he groans and his forehead thunks against the tiles to rest for a moment as he tries to catch his breath.

He's never let himself go that far, fantasizing about her. That way lies madness, there be dragons, etc... But he can't deny that he just had the most satisfying orgasm he's had in a long, long time.

Jackson rinses off, throws some water on the shower wall, washing away the remaining traces of his shameful little indiscretion.

He towels off and steps out of the shower. He moves back into the bedroom, and though he's suddenly exhausted, he fights the urge to lay down and sleep.

This is getting out of hand. You have to finish this.

Jackson throws on some shorts, a t-shirt, and his sneakers. He needs to run. Clear his head. On a good day, when he runs, the voices in his head get quieter, until it's just him, his breath, and his feet pounding on the pavement. He sets out from the b&b and heads toward the highway, toward the beach. He gets a rhythm down pretty quickly, but he has no luck quieting his thoughts.

If he goes to New Orleans, he knows he'll confront her. Which was the whole point of this. Confront her. Kill her. Or at least make her suffer like he did.

Now he doesn't know what's going to happen. He feels fractured, like he's being pulled in ten different directions, uncertain of which way to go. Uncertainty is something he is not comfortable with, and yet for the past few days it's become a constant.

Uncertainty.

And Lisa. 

The fact is...

The mere proximity of her unnerves him. This sick attraction he feels for her... Because, really, at this point he can't deny she gets him hot - not after taking matters into his own hands, so to speak. This sick attraction would make him soft. And he can't have that. No.

The irony of his situation is not lost on him.

Lisa is not an ordinary woman. Not really. When he started surveilling her, he initially didn't notice the attributes that set her apart. She was beautiful, of course. Intelligent. But she wasn't the most beautiful or the most intelligent asset he'd used. She was a tool, nothing more, to be used in the machinations of men greater than he. So there was little that should have interested him, other than the purpose that she was meant to serve.

Yet Lisa refused to be a tool.

She was a survivor of tragedy, touched by evil. And while others had faced worse tragedy, worse evil, Lisa could somehow walk through fire and come out stronger on the other side with grace and fortitude. And if she had been anyone else with no need to ever cross his path, he probably wouldn't have noticed her.

She went about her life, did very little to attract attention, and yet he couldn't stop watching her, still can't stop watching her. He tells himself it's the job, but that's not entirely true.

But now it's too late.

She's in this game - his game - and worst of all, she's good at playing, even if she doesn't want to.

He feels as though he's come to a crossroads.

After so long, with a single, clear goal in mind, one boring girl crosses his path, and suddenly another desire awakens in his mind.

One you cannot entertain, he tells himself.

He will not.

So. Fish or cut bait, Richard would say.

As he jogs up the steps of the inn, up to his room, he strips for another quick shower. 

New Orleans isn't that far away.

He'll keep fishing.

 

xxxxxxxx


End file.
